University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

THE  PETER  AND  ROSELL  HARVEY 

MEMORIAL  FUND 


4 

iw   ' 


RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 


Each  one  of  them  should  have  ridden*  alone  to  be  properly  appreciated. 
To  see  them  together  was  like  watching  a  flock  of  eagles. 


RIDERS  OF  THE 
SILENCES 


BY 

JOHN  FREDERICK 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

PRANK  TENNEY  JOHNSON 


If 


New  York 
THE  H.  K.  FLY  COMPANY 

Sheridan  Square 


COPYRIGHT,  I Q20,  BY 
THE  H.    K.   FLY   CCMPA.sY 

COPYRIGHT,  IQ20, 
THE    MUNSEY    CO. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  The  Thunderbolt  .....  9 

II.  Irene 19 

III.  The   Launching  of  The    Bolt  26 

IV.  The  Corner  Plot 34 

V.  Hurley 42 

VI.  Fear 50 

VII.  The  Voice  in  The  Storm        .     .  57 

VIII.  Belief 63 

IX.  Riders  of  The  Silences      ...  72 

X.  The  Guard 79 

XI.  Jack  Grows  Up 89 

XII.  The  Burial 98 

XIII.  A  Tale  of  The  Sledge       ...  105 

XIV.  McGurk 113 

XV.  Gold  Hair 120 

XVI.  Ennui          127 

XVII.  Black  Gandil         134 

XVIII.  Five  Minutes' Silence       .      .      .  142 

XIX.  Partners 149 

XX.  Full  Dress 157 

XXI.  The  Dance 166 

XXII.  The  Overtone 173 

XXIII.  The  Fear  of  The  Living  .     .     .  184 

XXIV.  The  Luck  of  The  Shipwrecked   .  191 
XXV.  Jacqueline  Waits 198 


XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXL 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 

XXXIX. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Game  of  Suppose    .      .     .     .  211 

The  Trail         218 

A  Hint  of  White 225 

Jack 232 

The  Whisper  of  The  Knife    .     .  239 

Laughter    ...  ...  247 

A  Tale  of  A  Careless  Man     .     .  255 

A  Count  To  Ten 262 

Tiger-Heart 269 

Jack  Hears  a  Small  Voice      .      .  277 

A  Voice  in  The  Night      .     .     .  284 

A  Man's  Death 291 

The  Waiting 296 

The  Cross  Goes  Om    ....  304 


RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  THUNDERBOLT 

IT  seemed  that  Father  Anthony  gathered  all  the 
warmth  of  the  short  northern  summer  and  kept  it 
for  winter  use,  for  his  good  nature  was  an  actual 
physical  force.  From  his  ruddy  face  beamed  such 
an  ardent  kindliness  that  people  literally  reached  out 
towards  him  as  they  might  extend  their  hands  to- 
ward a  comfortable  fire. 

All  the  labors  of  his  work  as  an  inspector  of  Jesuit 
institutions  across  the  length  and  breadth  of  Canada 
could  not  lessen  the  flame  of  the  good  father's  enthu- 
siasm; his  smile  was  as  indefatigable  as  his  critical 
eyes.  The  one  looked  sharply  into  every  corner  of 
a  room  and  every  nook  and  hidden  cranny  of 
thoughts  and  deeds;  the  other  veiled  the  criticism 
and  soothed  the  wounds  of  vanity. 

On  this  day,  however,  the  sharp  eyes  grew  a  little 
less  keen  and  somewhat  wider,  while  that  smile  was 
fixed  rather  by  habit  than  inclination.  In  fact,  his 
expression  might  be  called  a  frozen  kindliness  as  he 
looked  across  the  table  to  Father  Victor. 

It  required  a  most  indomitable  geniality,  indeed, 


io  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

to  outface  the  rigid  piety  of  Jean  Paul  Victor.  His 
missionary  work  had  carried  him  far  north,  where 
the  cold  burns  men  thin.  The  eternal  frost  of  the 
Arctics  lay  on  his  hair,  and  his  starved  eyes  looked 
out  from  hollows  shadowed  with  blue.  He  might 
have  posed  for  a  painting  of  one  of  those  damned 
souls  whom  Dante  placed  in  the  frozen  circle  of  the 
"Inferno." 

It  was  his  own  spirit  which  tortured  him — the 
zeal  which  drove  him  north  land  north  and  north 
over  untracked  regions,  drove  him  until  his  body 
failed,  drove  him  even  now,  though  his  body  was 
crippled. 

A  mighty  yearning,  and  a  still  mightier  self-con- 
tempt whipped  him  on,  and  the  school  over  which 
he  was  master  groaned  and  suffered  under  his 
regime,  and  the  disciples  caught  his  spirit  and  went 
out  like  warriors  in  the  name  of  God  to  spread  the 
faith. 

He  despised  them  as  he  despised  himself,  for  he 
said  continually  in  his  heart:  "How  great  is  the  pur- 
pose and  how  little  is  our  labor  I" 

Some  such  thought  as  that  curled  his  thin  lip  as 
he  stared  across  at  Father  Anthony  like  a  wolf  that 
has  not  eaten  for  a  fortnight.  The  good  father  sus- 
tained the  gaze,  but  he  shivered  a  little  and  sighed. 
There  was  awe,  and  pity,  and  even  a  touch  of  hor- 
ror in  his  eyes. 

He  said  gently:  "Are  there  none  among  all  your 
lads,  dear  Father  Victor,  whom  you  find  something 
more  than  imperfect  machines  ?" 

The  man  of  the  north  drew  from  a  pocket  of  his 


THE  THUNDERBOLT  n 

robe  a  letter.  His  marvelously  lean  fingers  touched 
it  almost  with  a  caress,  and  when  he  spoke  the 
softening  which  could  not  appear  in  the  rigid  fea- 
tures came  into  his  voice  and  made  it  lower  and 
deeper. 

"One," 

Father  Anthony  started  in  astonishment,  as  one 
might  start  to  hear  a  divine  prophet  admit  a  mistake, 
but  being  wise  he  remained  silent,  waiting.  Jean 
Paul  Victor  peered  into  space. 

"Pierre  Ryder.  He  is  like  a  pleasant  summer, 
and  I" — he  clasped  his  colorless  hands — "am  frozen 
— frozen  to  the  heart." 

^     Still  Father  Anthony  waited,  but  his  eyes  were 
like  diamonds  for  brightness. 

"He  shall  carry  on  my  mission  in  the  north.  I, 
who  am  silent,  have  done  much;  but  Pierre  sings, 
and  he  will  do  more.  I  had  to  fight  my  first  battle 
to  conquer  my  own  stubborn  soul,  and  the  battle  left 
me  weak  for  the  great  work  in  the  snows,  but  Pierre 
will  not  fight  that  battle,  for  I  have  trained  him." 

He  repeated  after  a  pause :  "For  those  who  sing 
forget  themselves  and  their  weariness.  I,  Jean  Paul 
Victor,  have  never  sung." 

He  bowed  his  head,  submitting  to  the  judgment 
of  God. 

"This  letter  is  for  him.  Shall  we  not  carry  it  to 
him?  For  two  days  I  have  not  seen  Pierre." 

Father  Anthony  winced. 

He  said :  "Do  you  deny  yourself  even  the  pleasure 
of  the  lad's  company?  Alas,  Father  Victor,  you 
forge  your  own  spurs  and  goad  yourself  with  your 


12  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

own  hands.  What  harm  is  there  in  being  often  with 
the  lad  ?" 

The  sneer  returned  to  the  lips  of  Jean  Paul  Vic- 
tor. 

"The  purpose  would  be  lost — lost  to  my  eyes  and 
lost  to  his — the  purpose  for  which  I  have  lived  and 
for  which  he  shall  live — the  purpose  to  which  you 
are  dedicated,  Gabrielle  Antoine  Anthony." 

He  relented  in  his  fierceness,  and  continued  with 
the  strange  gentle  note  in  his  voice:  "Our  love  for 
the  young,  it  is  like  a  vine  that  climbs  through  the 
branches  of  a  strong  tree.  When  the  vine  is  young 
it  may  be  taken  away  in  safety  and  both  the  tree 
and  the  vine  will  live,  but  if  it  grows  old  it  will  kill 
the  tree  when  the  vine  is  torn  away. 

"I  am  the  strong  tree,  and  Pierre  has  grown  into 
my  heart.  It  is  time  that  he  be  torn  away.  He  is 
almost  ready.  The  work  is  prepared.  He  must 
start  forth." 

Even  while  he  announced  his  purpose  the  sweat 
poured  out  on  his  forehead.  He  rose  and  paced 
noiselessly  up  and  down  the  bare  room,  his  black 
robe  catching  around  the  long,  bony  legs.  Father 
Anthony  drew  a  great  breath.  At  last  Jean  Paul 
Victor  could  speak  again. 

"In  all  the  history  of  our  order,  there  is  hardly 
one  man  who  will  go  out  armed  like  Pierre  Ryder. 
He  is  young,  he  is  strong,  he  is  fearless,  he  is  pure 
of  heart  and  single  of  mind.  He  has  never  tasted 
wine;  he  has  never  looked  wrongly  on  a  woman." 

"A  prodigy — but  it  is  your  work." 

"Mine— all  mine!" 


THE  THUNDERBOLT  13 

The  whole  soul  of  the  man  stood  up  in  his  eyes 
in  a. fierce  triumph. 

"Hear  how  I  worked.  When  I  first  saw  him  he 
was  a  child,  a  baby,  but  he  came  to  me  and  took 
one  finger  of  my  hand  in  his  small  fist  and  looked  up 
to  me.  Ah,  Gabrielle  the  smile  of  an  infant  goes 
to  the  heart  swifter  than  the  thrust  of  a  knife!  I 
looked  down  upon  him  and  thought  many  things, 
and  I  knew  that  I  was  chosen  to  teach  the  child. 
There  was  a  voice  that  spoke  in  me.  You  will  smile, 
but  even  now  I  think  I  can  hear  it." 

"I  swear  to  you  that  I  believe,"  said  Father  An- 
thony, and  his  voice  trembled. 

"Another  man  would  have  given  Pierre  a  Bible 
and  a  Latin  grammar  and  a  cell.  I  gave  him  the 
testament  and  the  grammar;  I  gave  him  also  the 
wild  north  country  to  say  his  prayers  in  and  patter 
his  Latin.  I  taught  his  mind,  but  I  did  not  forget 
his  body. 

"He  is  to  go  out  among  wild  men.  He  must  have 
strength  of  the  spirit.  He  must  also  have  a  strength 
of  the  body  that  they  will  understand  and  respect. 
How  else  can  he  translate  for  them  the  truths  of 
the  Holy  Spirit?  Every  day  of  his  life  I  have  made 
him  handle  firearms.  Other  men  think,  and  aim, 
and, fire;  Pierre  thinks  and  shoots,  and  has  forgotten 
how  to  miss. 

"He  goes  among  wild  men.  These  lessons  must 
be  learned.  He  is  a  soldier  of  God.  He  can  ride 
a  horse  standing;  he  can  run  a  hundred  miles  in  a 
day  behind  a  dog-team.  He  can  wrestle  and  fight 
with  his  hands,  for  I  have  brought  skilled  men  to 


14  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

teach  him.  I  have  made  him  a  thunderbolt  to  hurl 
among  the  ignorant  and  the  unenlightened;  and  this 
is  the  hand  which  shall  wield  it.  Ha!" 

A  flash  of  cold  fire  came  for  a  single  instant  in  his 
eyes  as  he  stood  with  upturned  face.  He  changed. 

"Yet  he  is  gentle  as  a  woman.  He  goes  out 
through  the  villages  and  comes  back  unharmed,  and 
after  him  come  letters  from  girls  and  old  men  and 
dames.  Even  strong  men  come  many  miles  to  see 
him  and  they  write  to  him.  He  is  known.  It  is 
now  hardly  a  six  month  since  he  saved  a  trapper 
from  a  bobcat  and  killed  the  animal  with  a  knife." 

His  heart  failed  him  at  the  thought,  and  he  mur- 
mured: "It  must  have  been  my  prayers  which  saved 
him  from  the  teeth  and  the  claws." 

Good  Father  Anthony  rose. 

"You  have  described  a  young  David.  I  am 
eager  to  see  him.  Let  us  go." 

"Wait.  Before  you  go  you  must  know  that  he 
does  not  suspect  that  he  differs  from  other  youths. 
Women  have  looked  lewdly  upon  him  and  written 
him  letters  with  singing  words,  but  Pierre  being  of  a 
simple  nature,  he  answers  them  briefly  and  com- 
mends them  to  God.  In  fact,  the  flattery  of  wo- 
men he  does  not  understand,  and  the  flattery  of 
men  he  thinks  is  mere  kindliness.  Are  you  prepared 
to  meet  him,  father?" 

Father  Anthony  nodded,  and  the  two  went  out 
together.  The  chill  of  the  open  was  hardly  more 
than  the  bitter  cold  inside  the  building,  but  there  was 
a  wind  that  drove  the  cold  through  the  blood  and 
bones  of  a  man. 


THE  THUNDERBOLT  15 

They  staggered  along  against  it  until  they  came 
to  a  small  outhouse,  long  and  low.  On  the  sheltered 
side  of  it  they  paused  to  take  breath,  and  Father 
Victor  explained:  "This  is  his  hour  in  the  gymna- 
sium. To  make  the  body  strong  required  thought 
and  care.  Mere  riding  and  running  and  swinging  of 
the  ax  will  not  develop  every  muscle.  So  I  made 
this  gymnasium,  and  here  Pierre  works  every  day. 
His  teachers  of  boxing  and  wrestling  have  aban- 
doned him." 

There  was  almost  a  smile  on  the  lean  face. 

"The  last  man  left  with  a  swollen  jaw  and  limp- 
ing on  one  leg." 

Conscience-stricken,  he  stopped  short,  crossed 
himself,  and  then  went  on :  "So  I  give  him  for  part- 
ners men  who  have  committed  small  sins.  Their 
penance  is  to  stand  before  Pierre  and  box  each 
day  for  a  few  minutes  and  then  to  wrestle  against 
him.  They  are  fierce  men,  these  woodsmen  and 
trappers,  and  big  of  body;  but  little  Pierre,  they 
dread  him  like  a  whip  of  fire.  One  and  all,  they 
come  to  me  within  a  fortnight  and  beg  for  an  easier 
penance." 

Here  he  opened  the  door,  and  they  slipped  inside. 
The  air  was  warmed  by  a  big  stove,  and  the  room — 
for  the  afternoon  was  dark — lighted  by  two  swing- 
ing lanterns  suspended  from  the  low  roof.  By  that 
illumination  Father  Anthony  saw  two  men  stripped 
naked,  save  for  a  loin-cloth,  and  circling  each  other 
slowly  in  the  center  of  a  ring  which  was  fenced  in 
with  ropes  and  floored  with  a  padded  mat.  Cer- 


16  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

tainly  Father  Victor  had  spared  nothing  in  expense 
to  make  the  fittings  of  the  gymnasium  perfect. 

Of  the  two  wrestlers,  one  was  a  veritable  giant 
of  a  Canuck,  swarthy  of  skin,  hairy-chested.  His 
great  hands  were  extended  to  grasp  or  to  parry — 
his  head  lowered  with  a  ferocious  scowl — and  across 
his  forehead  swayed  a  tuft  of  black,  shaggy  hair. 
He  might  have  stood  for  one  of  those  northern  bar- 
barians whom  the  Romans  loved  to  pit  against  their 
native  champions  in  the  arena.  He  was  the  greater 
because  of  the  opponent  he  faced,  and  it  was  upon 
this  opponent  that  the  eyes  of  Father  Anthony  cen- 
tered. 

Like  Father  Victor,  he  was  caught  first  by  the 
bright  hair.  It  was  a  dark  red,  and  where  the  light 
struck  it  strongly  there  were  places  like  fire.  Down 
from  this  hair  the  light  slipped  like  running  water 
over  a  lithe  body,  slender  at  the  hips,  strong- 
chested,  round  and  smooth  of  limb,  with  long 
muscles  everywhere  leaping  and  trembling  at  every 
move. 

He,  like  the  big  Canuck,  circled  cautiously  about, 
but  the  impression  he  gave  was  as  different  from  the 
other  as  day  is  from  night.  His  head  was  carried 
high;  in  place  of  a  scowl,  he  smiled  with  a  sort  of 
boyish  eagerness,  and  a  light  which  was  partly  ex- 
ultation and  partly  mischief  sparkled  in  his  eyes. 
Once  or  twice  the  giant  caught  at  the  other,  but 
David  slipped  from  under  the  grip  of  Goliath  easily. 
It  seemed  as  if  his  skin  were  oiled.  The  big  man 
snarled  with  anger,  and  lunged  more  eagerly  at 


THE  THUNDERBOLT  17 

Pierre.  Father  Anthony  caught  the  shoulder  of 
his  friend. 

"Quick!"  he  whispered  anxiously.  "Stop  them, 
for  if  the  black  fellow  sets  his  fingers  on  the  boy  he 
will  break  him  like  a  willow  wand,  and — in  the  name 
of  God,  Jean  Paul  I" 

For  the  two,  abandoning  their  feints,  suddenly 
rushed  together,  and  the  swarthy  arms  of  the  mon- 
ster slipped  around  the  white  body  of  Pierre.  For 
a  moment  they  whirled,  twisting  and  struggling. 

"Now!"  murmured  Father  Victor;  and  as  if  in 
answer  to  a  command,  Pierre  slipped  down, 
whipped  his  hands  to  a  new  grip,  and  the  two 
crashed  to  the  mat,  with  Pierre  above. 

"Open  your  eyes,  Father  Anthony.  The  lad  is 
safe.  How  Goliath  grunts!" 

The  boy  had  not  cared  to  follow  his  advantage, 
but  rose  and  danced  away,  laughing  softly.  The 
Canuck  floundered  up  and  rushed  like  a  furious  bull. 
His  downfall  was  only  the  swifter.  The  impact  of 
the  two  bodies  sounded  like  hands  clapped  together, 
and  then  Goliath  rose  into  the  air,  struggling 
mightily,  and  pitched  with  a  thud  to  the  mat. 

He  writhed  there,  for  the  wind  was  knocked  from 
his  body  by  the  fall.  At  length  he  struggled  to  a 
sitting  posture  and  glared  up  at  the  conqueror.  The 
boy  reached  out  a  hand  to  his  fallen  foe. 

"You  would  have  thrown  me  that  way  the  first 
time,"  he  said,  "but  you  let  me  change  grips  on  you. 
In  another  week  you  will  be  too  much  for  me,  bon 


ami." 


The  other  accepted  the  hand  after  an  instant  of 


1 8  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

hesitation  and  was  dragged  to  his  feet.  He  stood 
resting  one  elbow  on  the  gleaming  shoulder  of  Pierre 
and  looking  down  into  the  boy's  face  with  a  singular 
grin.  But  there  was  no  triumph  in  the  eye  of  Pierre 
— only  a  good-natured  interest. 

"In  another  week,"  answered  the  giant,  "there 
will  not  be  a  sound  bone  in  my  body.  This  very 
night  I  shall  go  to  Father  Victor.  I  had  rather 
starve  for  three  days  in  the  forest  than  stand  up 
to  you  for  three  minutes,  little  brother." 


CHAPTER  II 

IRENE 

"You  have  seen  him,"  murmured  the  tall  priest. 
"Now  let  us  go  back  and  wait  for  him.  I  will  leave 
word." 

He  touched  one  of  the  two  or  three  men  who  were 
watching  the  athletes,  and  whispered  his  message  in 
the  other's  ear.  Then  he  went  back  with  Father 
Anthony. 

"You  have  seen  him/'  he  repeated,  when  they  sat 
once  more  in  the  cheerless  room.  "Now  pro- 
nounce on  him." 

The  other  answered:  "I  have  seen  a  wonderful 
body — but  the  mind,  Father  Victor?" 

"It  is  as  simple  as  that  of  a  child — his  thoughts 
run  as  clear  as  spring  water." 

"Ah,  but  they  are  swift  thoughts.  Suppose  the 
spring  water  gathers  up  a  few  stones  and  rushes  on 
down  the  side  of  the  mountain.  Very  soon  it  is 
wearing  a  deeper  channel — then  but  a  little  space, 
and  it  is  a  raging  torrent  and  tears  down  great  trees 
from  its  banks  and  goes  shouting  and  leaping  out 
toward  the  sea. 

"Suppose  a  strange  thought  came  in  the  mind  of 
your  Pierre.  It  would  be  like  the  pebbles  in  the 
swift-running  spring  water.  He  would  carry  it  on, 

19 


20  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

rushing.  It  would  tear  away  the  old  boundaries  of 
his  mind — it  might  wipe  out  the  banks  you  have  set 
down  for  him — it  might  tear  away  the  choicest 
teachings." 

Father  Victor  sat  straight  and  stiff  with  stern, 
set  lips. 

He  said  dryly:  "Father  Anthony  has  been  much 
in  the  world." 

"I  speak  from  the  best  intention,  good  father. 
Look  you,  now,  I  have  seen  that  same  red  hair  and 
those  same  lighted  blue  eyes  before,  and  wherever 
I  have  seen  them  has  been  war  and  trouble  and  un- 
rest. I  have  seen  that  same  whimsical  smile  which 
stirs  the  heart  of  a  woman  and  makes  a  man  reach 
for  his  revolver.  This  boy  whose  mind  is  so  clear — 
arm  him  with  a  single  wrong  thought,  with  a  single 
doubt  of  the  eternal  goodness  of  God's  plans,  and 
he  will  be  a  thunderbolt  indeed,  dear  Father,  but  one 
which  even  your  strong  hand  could  not  control." 

"I  have  heard  you,"  said  the  priest;  "but  you 
will  see.  He  is  coming  now." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door;  then  it  opened 
and  showed  a  modest  novice  in  a  simple  gown  of 
black  serge  girt  at  the  waist  with  the  flat  encircling 
band.  His  head  was  downward;  it  was  not  till  the 
blue  eyes  flashed  inquisitively  up  that  Father  An- 
thony recognized  Pierre. 

The  hard  voice  of  Jean  Paul  Victor  pronounced : 
"This  is  that  Father  Anthony  of  whom  I  have 
spoken." 

The  novice  slipped  to  his  knees  and  folded  his 
hands.  The  two  priests  exchanged  glances,  one  of 


IRENE  21 

triumph  and  one  of  wonder,  while  the  plump  fingers 
of  Father  Anthony  poised  over  that  dark  red  hair, 
pressed  smooth  on  top  where  the  skull-cap  rested, 
and  curling  somewhat  at  the  sides.  The  blessing 
which  he  spoke  was  Latin,  and  Father  Victor  looked 
somewhat  anxiously  toward  his  protege  till  the  latter 
answered  in  a  diction  so  pure  that  Cicero  himself 
would  have  smiled  to  hear  it: 

"Father,  I  thank  thee,  and  if  my  mind  were  as 
old  as  thine  I  might  be  able  to  wish  blessings  as  great 
as  these  in  return." 

"Stand  up!"  cried  Father  Anthony.  "By  Heav- 
ens, Jean  Paul,  it  is  the  purest  Latin  I  have  heard 
this  twelvemonth." 

And  the  lad  answered:  "It  must  be  pure  Latin; 
Father  Victor  has  taught  me." 

Gabrielle  Anthony  stared,  and  to  save  him  from 
too  obvious  confusion  the  other  priest  interrupted: 

("I  have  a  letter  for  you,  my  son." 
And  he  passed  the  envelope  to  Pierre.  The  latter 
examined  it  with  interest. 

"The  writing  sprawls  like  the  knees  of  a  boy  of 
ten.  What  old  man  has  written  to  you,  Pierre?" 

"No  man  that  I  know.     This  comes  from  the 
south.     It  is  marked  from  the  United  States." 
•  "So  far!"  exclaimed  the  tall  priest.     "Give  me 
the  letter,  lad." 

But  here  he  caught  the  whimsical  eyes  of  Father 
Anthony,  and  he  allowed  his  outstretched  hand  to 
fall.  Yet  he  scowled  as  he  said:  "No;  keep  it  and 
read  it,  Pierre." 

"I  have  no  great  wish  to  keep  it,"   answered 


22  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

Pierre,  studying  anxiously  the  dark  brow  of  the 
priest. 

"It  is  yours.    Open  it  and  read." 

The  lad  obeyed  instantly.  He  shook  out  the 
folded  paper  and  moved  a  little  nearer  the  light. 
Then  he  read  aloud,  as  if  it  had  never  entered  his 
mind  that  what  was  addressed  to  him  might  be 
meant  for  his  eyes  alone.  And  as  he  read  he  re- 
minded Father  Anthony  of  some  childish  chorister 
pronouncing  words  beyond  his  understanding.  The 
tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  the  good  father. 

And  he  said  in  his  heart:  "Alas !  I  have  been  too 
much  in  the  world  of  men,  and  now  a  child  can  teach 
me." 

The  musical  voice  of  the  boy  began : 

"Morgantown, 

"R.  F.  D.  No.  4. 
"SON  PIERRE: 

"Here  I  lie  with  a  chunk  of  lead  from  the  gun  of  Bob  McGurk 
resting  somewheres  in  the  insides  of  me,  and  there  ain't  no  way 
of  doubting  that  I'm  about  to  go  out.  Now,  I  ain't  complaining 
none.  I've  had  my  fling.  I've  eat  my  meat  to  order,  well  done 
and  rare — mostly  rare.  Maybe  some  folks  will  be  saying  that 
I've  got  what  I've  been  asking  for,  and  I  know  that  Bob  McGurk 
got  me  fair  and  square,  shooting  from  the  hip.  That  don't  help 
me  none,  lying  here  with  a  through  ticket  to  some  place  that's 
farther  south  than  Texas." 

Pierre  lowered  the  letter  and  looked  gravely  upon 
Father  Victor. 

"There  are  blasphemies  coming.  Shall  I  read 
on?" 

"Yes." 

He  began  again,  a  little  spot  of  red  coming  into 
either  cheek: 


IRENE  23 

"Hell  ain't  none  too  bad  for  me,  I  know.  I  ain't  whining 
none.  I  just  lie  here  and  watch  the  world  getting  dimmer  until 
I  begin  to  be  seeing  things  out  of  my  past.  That  shows  the 
devil  ain't  losing  no  time  with  me.  But  the  thing  that  comes 
back  oftenest  and  hits  me  the  hardest  is  the  sight  of  your 
mother,  lying  with  you  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm  and  looking 
up  at  me  and  whispering,  'Dad,'  just  before  she  went  out" 

The  hand  of  the  boy  fell,  and  his  wide  eyes  sought 
the  face  of  Father  Victor.  The  latter  was  stand- 
ing. 

"You  told  me  I  had  no  father — " 

An  imperious  arm  stretched  toward  him. 

"Give  me  the  letter." 

He  moved  to  obey,  and  then  checked  himself. 

"This  is  my  father's  writing,  is  it  not?" 

"No,  no  I    It's  a  lie,  Pierre!" 

But  Pierre  stood  with  the  letter  held  behind  his 
back,  and  the  first  doubt  in  his  life  stood  up  darkly 
in  his  eyes.  Father  Victor  sank  slowly  back  into  his 
chair.  All  his  gaunt  frame  was  trembling. 

"Read  on,"  he  commanded. 

And  Pierre,  white  of  face,  read  on : 

"So  I  got  a  idea  that  I  had  to  write  to  you,  Pierre.  There 
ain't  nothing  I  can  make  up  to  you,  but  knowing  the  truth  may 
help  some.  Poor  kid,  you  ain't  got  no  father  in  the  eyes  of 
the  law,  and  neither  did  you  have  no  mother,  and  there  ain't  no 
name  that  belong*  to  you  by  rights." 

Father  Anthony  veiled  his  eyes,  but  the  bright 
starved  eyes  of  Jean  Paul  Victor  stared  on  at  the 
reader.  His  voice  was  lower  now,  and  the  lips  moved 
slowly,  as  though  numb  with  cold: 

"I  wn»  a  man  in  them  days,  and  your  mother  wat  a  woman 
that  brought  your  heart  into  your  throat  and  set  it  singing.  She 


24  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

and  me,  we  were  too  busy  being  just  plain  happy  to  care  much 
what  was  right  or  wrong;  so  you  just  sort  of  happened  along, 
Pierre.  Me  being  so  close  to  hell,  I  remember  her  eyes  that 
was  blue'r  than  heaven  looking  up  to  me,  and  her  hair,  that 
was  copper  with  gold  lights  in  it,  ran  down  across  the  white  of 
her  shoulder,  and  even  past  her  side  and  around  you,  Pierre, 
till  it  seemed  like  you  was  lying  in  a  red  river.  She  being  about 
all  in,  she  got  hold  of  my  hand  and  looked  up  to  me  with  them 
blue  eyes  I  been  talking  about,  and  said  'Dad,'  and  went  out. 
And  I  damned  near  followed  her. 

"I  buried  Irene  on  the  side  of  the  mountain  under  a  big,  rough 
rock,  and  I  didn't  carve  nothing  on  the  rock.  Then  I  took  you, 
Pierre,  and  I  knew  I  wasn't  no  sort  of  a  man  to  raise  up  the 
son  of  Irene;  so  I  brought  you  to  Father  Victor  on  a  winter 
night  and  left  you  in  his  arms.  That  was  after  I'd  done  my 
best  to  raise  you  and  you  was  just  about  old  enough  to  chatter 
a  bit.  There  wasn't  nothing  else  to  do.  My  wife,  she  went 
pretty  near  crazy  when  I  brought  you  home.  And  she'd  of  killed 
you,  Pierre,  if  I  hadn't  took  you  away. 

"You  see,  I  was  married  before  I  met  Irene.  So  there  ain't 
no  alibi  for  me.  I  just  acted  the  hound.  But  me  being  so  close 
to  hell  now,  I  look  back  to  that  time,  and  somehow  I  see  no 
wrong  in  it  still. 

"And  if  I  done  wrong  then,  I've  got  my  share  of  hell-fire  for 
it  Here  I  lie,  with  my  boys,  Bill  and  Bert,  sitting  around  in 
the  corner  of  the  room  waiting  for  me  to  go  out.  They  ain't  men, 
Pierre.  They're  wolves  in  the  skins  of  men.  They're  the  right 
sons  of  their  mother.  When  I  go  out  they'll  grab  the  coin  I've 
saved  up,  and  leave  me  to  lie  here  and  rot,  maybe. 

"Lad,  it's  a  fearful  thing  to  die  without  having  no  one  around 
that  cares,  and  to  know  that  even  after  I've  gone  out  I'm  going 
to  lie  here  and  have  my  dead  eyes  looking  up  at  the  ceiling.  So 
I'm  writing  to  you,  Pierre,  part  to  tell  you  what  you  ought  to 
know;  part  because  I  got  a  sort  of  crazy  idea  that  maybe  you 
could  get  down  here  to  me  before  I  go  out. 

"You  don't  owe  me  nothing  but  hard  words,  Pierre;  but  if  you 
don't  try  to  come  to  me,  the  ghost  of  your  mother  will  follow 
you  all  your  life,  lad,  and  you'll  be  seeing  her  blue  eyes  and  the 
red-gold  of  her  hair  in  the  dark  of  the  night  as  I  see  it  now. 
Me,  I'm  a  hard  man,  but  it  breaks  my  heart,  that  ghost  of  Irene. 
So  here  I'll  lie,  waiting  for  you,  Pierre,  and  lingering  out  the 
days  with  whisky,  and  fighting  the  wolf  eyes  of  them  there  sons 


IRENE  25 

of  mine.  If  I  weaken— If  they  find  they  can  look  me  square 
in  the  eye— they'll  finish  me  quick,  and  make  off  with  the  coin. 
Pierre,  come  quick. 

'MARTIN  RYDER." 

The  hand  of  Pierre  dropped  slowly  to  his  side, 
and  the  letter  fluttered  with  a  crisp  rustling  to  the 
floor. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  LAUNCHING  OF  THE  BOLT 

THEN  came  a  voice  that  startled  the  two  priests, 
for  it  seemed  that  a  fourth  man  had  entered  the 
room,  so  changed  was  it  from  the  musical  voice  of 
Pierre. 

"Father  Victor,  the  roan  is  a  strong  horse.  May 
I  take  him?" 

"Pierre!"  and  the  priest  reached  out  his  bony 
hands. 

But  the  boy  did  not  seem  to  notice  or  to  under- 
stand. 

"It  is  a  long  journey,  and  I  will  need  a  strong 
horse.  It  must  be  eight  hundred  miles  to  that 
town." 

"Pierre,  what  claim  has  he  upon  you?  What  debt 
have  you  to  repay?" 

And  Pierre  le  Rouge  answered:  "He  loved  my 
mother." 

He  raised  his  face  a  little  higher  and  smiled  upon 
them. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  name,  is  it  not — Irene?" 

There  was  no  voice  from  Jean  Paul  Victor,  so 
he  turned  to  Father  Anthony. 

"It  is  a  charming  name,  Pierre." 

"I  would  give  my  revolver  with  the  pearl  handle, 

26 


THE  LAUNCHING  OF  THE  BOLT     27 

and  my  skates,  and  the  engraven  knife  of  old  Canole 
just  for  one  glimpse  of  her." 

"You  are  going  ?" 

The  boy  asked  in  astonishment :  "Would  you  not 
have  me  go,  Father?" 

And  Jean  Paul  Victor  could  not  meet  the  sorrow- 
ful blue  eyes. 

He  bowed  his  head  and  answered:  "My  child, 
I  would  have  you  go.  But  promise  with  your  hand 
in  mine  that  you  will  come  back  to  me  when  your 
father  is  buried." 

The  lean  fingers  caught  the  extended  hand  of 
Pierre  and  froze  about  it. 

"But  first  I  have  a  second  duty  in  the  southland." 

"A  second?" 

"You  taught  me  to  shoot  and  to  use  a  knife.  Once 
you  said:  'An  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a 
tooth.'  Father  Victor,  my  father  was  killed  by  an- 
other man." 

"Pierre,  dear  lad,  swear  to  me  here  on  this  cross 
that  you  will  not  raise  your  hands  against  the  mur- 
derer. 'Vengeance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord.' ' 

"He  must  have  an  instrument  for  his  wrath.  He 
shall  work  through  me  in  this." 

"Pierre,  you  blaspheme." 

"  'An  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.1 ' 

"It  was  a  demon  in  me  that  quoted  that  in  your 
hearing,  and  not  myself." 

"The  horse,  Father  Victor — may  I  have  the 
roan?" 

"Pierre,  I  command  you — " 


28  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

The  light  in  the  blue  eyes  was  as  cold  and  steady 
as  that  in  the  starved  eyes  of  Jean  Paul  Victor. 

"Hush!"  he  said  calmly.  "For  the  sake  of  the 
love  that  I  bear  for  you,  do  not  command  me." 

"Pierre,  I  have  prayed  God  for  you  night  and 
morning,  and  for  the  sake  of  those  prayers  which 
are  dearer  than  gold  in  heaven,  stay  with  me !" 

"Dear  Father  Victor,  you  also  hope  for  hands 
that  love  you  to  close  your  eyes  at  the  end." 

And  the  stern  priest  dropped  his  head.  He  said 
at  last:  "I  have  nothing  saving  one  great  and  ter- 
rible treasure  which  I  see  was  predestined  to  you. 
It  is  the  cross  of  Father  Meilan.  You  have  worn 
it  before.  You  shall  wear  it  hereafter  as  your 


own." 


He  took  from  his  own  neck  a  silver  cross  sus- 
pended by  a  slender  silver  chain,  and  the  boy,  with 
startled  eyes,  dropped  to  his  knees  and  received  the 
gift 

"It  has  brought  good  to  all  who  possessed  it,  but 
for  every  good  thing  that  it  works  for  you  it  will 
work  evil  on  some  other.  Great  is  its  blessing  and 
great  is  its  burden.  I,  alas,  know;  but  you  also  have 
heard  of  its  history.  Do  you  accept  it,  Pierre?" 

"Dear  Father,  with  all  my  heart." 

The  colorless  hands  touched  the  dark-red  hair, 
and  the  prophet  eyes  of  the  priest  went  up. 

"God  pardon  the  sins  you  shall  commit." 

Pierre  crushed  the  hand  of  Jean  Paul  Victor 
against  his  lips  and  rushed  from  the  room,  while 
the  tall  priest,  staring  down  at  the  fingers  which  had 
been  kissed,  pronounced: 


THE  LAUNCHING  OF  THE  BOLT     29 

"It  is  better  that  he  should  commit  murder  with 
his  hands  than  to  slay  in  his  evil  thoughts." 

"Can  you  resign  him  like  this?" 

"I  have  forged  a  thunderbolt.  Father  Gabrieller 
you  are  a  prophet.  It  is  too  great  for  my  hand. 
Listen!" 

And  they  heard  clearly  the  sharp  clang  of  a 
horse's  hoofs  on  the  hard-packed  snow,  loud  at  first, 
but  fading  rapidly  away.  The  wind,  increasing  sud- 
denly, shook  the  house  furiously  about  them. 

It  was  a  north  wind,  and  traveled  south  before 
the  rider  of  the  strong  roan.  Over  a  thousand  miles 
of  plain  and  hills  it  passed,  and  down  into  the  cattle 
country  of  the  mountain-desert  which  the  Rockies 
hem  on  one  side  and  the  tall  Sierras  on  the  other. 

It  was  a  trail  to  try  even  the  endurance  of  Pierre 
and  the  strong  roan,  but  the  boy  clung  to  it  doggedly. 
On  a  trail  that  led  down  from  the  edges  of  the 
northern  mountain  the  roan  crashed  to  the  ground 
in  a  plunging  fall,  hitting  heavily  on  his  knees.  He 
was  dead  before  the  boy  had  freed  his  feet  from  the 
stirrups. 

Pierre  threw  the  saddle  over  his  shoulder  and 
walked  eight  miles  to  the  nearest  ranchhouse,  where 
he  spent  practically  the  last  cent  of  his  money  on  an- 
other horse,  and  drove  on  south  once  more. 

There  was  little  hope  in  him  as  day  after  day 
slipped  past.  Only  the  ghost  of  a  chance  remained 
that  Martin  Ryder  could  fight  away  death  for  an- 
other fortnight;  yet  Pierre  had  seen  many  a  man 
from  the  mountain-desert  stave  off  the  end  through 
weeks  and  weeks  of  the  bitterest  suffering.  His 


30  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

father  must  be  a  man  of  the  same  hard  durable 
metal,  and  upon  that  Pierre  staked  all  his  hopes. 

And  always  he  carried  the  picture  of  the  dying 
man  alone  with  his  two  wolf-eyed  sons  who  waited 
for  his  eyes  to  weaken.  Whenever  he  thought  of 
that  he  touched  his  horse  with  the  spurs  and  rode 
fiercely  for  a  time.  They  were  his  flesh  and  blood, 
the  man,  and  even  the  two  wolf-eyed  sons. 

So  he  came  at  last  to  a  gap  in  the  hills  and  looked 
down  on  Morgantown  in  the  hollow,  twoscore  un- 
painted  houses  sprawling  along  a  single  street.  The 
snow  was  everywhere  white  and  pure,  and  the  town 
was  like  a  stain  on  the  landscape  with  wisps  of  smoke 
rising  and  trailing  across  the  hilltops. 

Down  to  the  edge  of  the  town  he  rode,  left  his 
cow-pony  standing  with  hanging  head  outsdde  a 
saloon,  strode  through  the  swinging  doors,  and 
asked  of  the  bartender  the  way  to  the  house  of  Mar- 
tin Ryder. 

The  bartender  stopped  in  his  labor  of  rubbing 
down  the  surface  of  his  bar  and  stared  at  the  black- 
serge  robe  of  the  stranger,  with  curiosity  rather  than 
criticism,  for  women,  madmen,  and  clergymen  have 
the  right-of-way  in  the  mountain-desert. 

He  said:  "Well,  I'll  be  damned !— askin'  your 
pardon.  So  old  Mart  Ryder  has  come  down  to  this, 
eh?  Partner,  you're  sure  going  to  have  a  rough 
ride  getting  Mart  to  heaven.  Better  send  a  posse 
along  with  him,  because  some  first-class  angels  are 
going  to  get  considerable  riled  when  they  sight  him 
coming.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Sure  I'll  show  you  the  way. 
Take  the  northwest  road  out  of  town  and  go  five 


THE  LAUNCHING  OF  THE  BOLT     31 

miles  till  you  see  a  broken-backed  shack  lyin'  over  to 
the  right.  That's  Mart  Ryder's  place." 

Out  to  the  broken-backed  shack  rode  Pierre  le 
Rouge,  Pierre  the  Red,  as  every  one  in  the  north 
country  knew  him.  His  second  horse,  staunch  cow- 
pony  that  it  was,  stumbled  on  with  sagging  knees 
and  hanging  head,  but  Pierre  rode  upright,  at  ease, 
for  his  mind  was  untired. 

Broken-backed  indeed  was  the  house  before  which 
he  dismounted.  The  roof  sagged  from  end  to  end, 
and  the  stove  pipe  chimney  leaned  at  a  drunken 
angle.  Nature  itself  was  withered  beside  that 
house;  before  the  door  stood  a  great  cottonwood, 
gashed  and  scarred  by  lightning,  with  the  limbs  al- 
most entirely  stripped  away  from  one  side.  Under 
this  broken  monster  Pierre  stepped  and  through  the 
door.  Two  growls  like  the  snarls  of  watch-dogs 
greeted  him,  and  two  tall,  unshaven  men  barred  his 
way. 

Behind  them,  from  the  bed  in  the  corner,  a  feeble 
voice  called:  "Who's  there?" 

"In  the  name  of  God,"  said  the  boy  gravely,  for 
he  saw  a  hollow-eyed  specter  staring  toward  him 
from  the  bed  in  the  corner,  "let  me  pass!  I  am  his 


son!' 


It  was  not  that  which  made  them  give  back,  but 
a  shrill,  faint  cry  of  triumph  from  the  sick  man  to- 
ward which  they  turned.  Pierre  slipped  past 
them  and  stood  above  Martin  Ryder.  He  was 
wasted  beyond  belief — only  the  monster  hand 
showed  what  he  had  been. 


32  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"Son?"  he  queried  with  yearning  and  uncer- 
tainty. 

"Pierre,  your  son." 

And  he  slipped  to  his  knees  beside  the  bed.  The 
heavy  hand  fell  upon  his  hair  and  stroked  it. 

"There  ain't  no  ways  of  doubting  it.  It's  red  silk, 
like  the  hair  of  Irene.  Seein'  you,  boy,  it  ain't  so 
hard  to  die.  Look  up !  So !  Pierre,  my  son !  Are 
you  seared  of  me,  boy?" 

"I'm  not  afraid." 

"Not  with  them  eyes  you  ain't.  Now  that  you're 
here,  pay  the  coyotes  and  let  'em  go  off  to  gnaw  the 
bones." 

He  dragged  out  a  small  canvas  bag  from  beneath 
the  blankets  and  gestured  toward  the  two  lurkers 
in  the  corner. 

"Take  it,  and  be  damned  to  you!" 

A  dirty,  yellow  hand  seized  the  bag;  there  was 
a  chortle  of  exultation,  and  the  two  scurried  out  of 
the  room. 

"Three  weeks  they've  watched  an'  waited  for  me 
to  go  out,  Pierre.  Three  weeks  they've  waited  an' 
sneaked  up  to  my  bed  an'  sneaked  away  agin,  seein' 
my  eyes  open." 

Looking  into  their  fierce  fever  brightness,  Pierre 
understood  why  they  had  quailed.  For  the  man, 
though  wrecked  beyond  hope  of  living,  was  terrible 
still.  The  thick,  gray  stubble  on  his  face  could  not 
hide  altogether  the  hard  lines  of  mouth  and  jaw, 
and  on  the  wasted  arm  the  hand  was  grotesquely 
huge.  It  was  horror  that  widened  the  eyes  of  Pierre 


THE  LAUNCHING  OF  THE  BOLT     33 

as  he  looked  at  Martin  Ryder;  it  was  a  grim  hap- 
piness that  made  his  lips  almost  smile. 

"You've  taken  holy  orders,  lad?" 

"No." 

"But  the  black  dress?" 

"I'm  only  a  novice.  I've  sworn  no  vows.*' 

"And  you  don't  hate  me — you  hold  no  grudge 
against  me  for  the  sake  of  your  mother,  Pierre?" 
He  took  the  heavy  hand. 

"Are  you  not  my  father?  And  my  mother  was 
happy  with  you.  For  her  sake  I  love  you." 

"The  good  Father  Victor.    He  sent  you  to  me." 

"I  came  of  my  own  will.  He  would  not  have  let 
me  go." 

"He — he  would  have  kept  my  flesh  and  blood 
away  from  me?" 

"Do  not  reproach  him.  He  would  have  kept  me 
from  a  sin." 

"Sin?  By  God,  boy,  no  matter  what  I've  done, 
is  it  sin  for  my  son  to  come  to  me?  What  sin?'* 

"The  sin  of  murder!" 

"Ha!" 

"I  have  come  to  find  McGurk." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   CORNER    PLOT 

LIKE  some  old  father-bear  watching  his  cub  flash 
teeth  against  a  stalking  lynx,  half  proud  and  half 
fearful  of  such  courage,  so  the  dying  cattleman 
looked  at  his  son.  Excitement  set  a  high  and  dan- 
gerous color  in  his  cheek.  His  eyes  were  too  bright. 

"Pierre — brave  boy!  Look  at  me.  I  ain't  no 
imitation-man,  even  now,  but  I  ain't  a  ghost  of  what 
I  was.  There  wasn't  no  man  I  wouldn't  of  met  fair 
and  square  with  bare  hands  or  with  a  gun.  Maybe 
my  hands  was  big,  but  they  were  fast  on  the  draw. 
I've  lived  all  my  life  with  iron  on  the  hip,  and  my 
six-gun  has  seven  notches. 

"But  McGurk  downed  me  fair  and  square.  There 
wasn't  no  murder.  I  was  out  for  his  hide,  and  he 
knew  it.  I  done  the  provokin',  an'  he  jest  done  the 
finishin',  that  was  all.  It  hurts  me  a  lot  to  say  it, 
but  he's  a  better  man  than  I  was.  A  kid  like  you, 
why,  he'd  jest  eat  you,  Pierre." 

Pierre  le  Rouge  smiled  again.  He  felt  a  stern 
and  aching  pride  to  be  the  son  of  this  man. 

"So  that's  settled,"  went  on  Martin  Ryder,  "an1 
a  damned  good  thing  it  is.  Son,  you  didn't  come 
none  too  soon.  I'm  goin'  out  fast.  There  ain't 
enough  light  left  in  me  so's  I  can  see  my  own  way. 

34 


THE  CORNER  PLOT  35 

Here's  all  I  ask:  When  I  die  touch  my  eyelids  soft 
an'  draw  'em  shut — I've  seen  the  look  in  a  dead 
man's  eyes.  Close  'em,  and  I  know  I'll  go  to  sleep 
an'  have  good  dreams.  And  down  in  the  middle  of 
Morgantown  is  the  buryin'-ground.  I've  ridden 
past  it  a  thousand  times  an'  watched  a  corner  plot, 
where  the  grass  grows  quicker  than  it  does  any- 
wheres else  in  the  cemetery.  Pierre,  I'd  die  plumb 
easy  if  I  knew  I  was  goin'  to  sleep  the  rest  of  time 
in  that  place.'1 

"It  shall  be  done." 

"But  that  corner  plot,  it  would  cost  a  pile,  son. 
And  I've  no  money.  I  gave  what  I  had  to  them 
wolf-eyed  boys,  Bill  an'  Bert.  Money  was  what 
they  wanted,  an'  after  I  had  Irene's  son  with  me, 
money  was  the  cheapest  way  of  gettin'  rid  of  'em." 

"I'll  buy  the  plot." 

"Have  you  got  that  much  money,  lad?" 

"Yes,"  lied  Pierre  calmly. 

The  bright  eyes  grew  dimmer  and  then  fluttered 
close.  Pierre  started  to  his  feet,  thinking  that  the 
end  had  come.  But  the  voice  began  again,  fainter, 
slowly : 

"No  light  left  inside  of  me,  but  dyin1  this  way 
is  easy.  There  ain't  no  wind  will  blow  on  me  after 
I'm  dead,  but  I'll  be  blanketed  safe  from  head  to 
foot  in  cool,  sweet-smellin'  sod — the  kind  that  has 
tangles  of  the  roots  of  grass.  There  ain't  no  snow 
will  reach  to  me  where  I  lie.  There  ain't  no  sun 
will  burn  down  to  me.  Dyin'  like  that  is  jest — goin' 
to  sleep." 

After  that  he  said  nothing  for  a  time,  and  the 


36  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

late  afternoon  darkened  slowly  through  the  room. 

As  for  Pierre,  he  did  not  move,  and  his  mind 
went  back.  He  did  not  see  the  bearded  wreck  who 
lay  dying  before  him,  but  a  picture  of  Irene,  with 
the  sun  lighting  her  copper  hair  with  places  of  burn- 
ing gold,  and  a  handsome  young  giant  beside  her. 
They  rode  together  on  some  upland  trail  at  sunset 
time,  sharply  framed  against  the  bright  sky.  Their 
hands  were  together;  their  faces  were  raised;  they 
laughed,  from  the  midst  of  their  small  heaven. 

There  was  a  whisper  below  him:  "Irene!'* 

And  Pierre  looked  down  to  blankly  staring  eyes. 
He  groaned,  and  dropped  to  his  knees. 

"I  have  come  for  you,"  said  the  whisper,  "because 
the  time  has  come,  Irene.  We  have  to  ride  out  to- 
gether. We  have  a  long  ways  to  go.  Are  you 
ready ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pierre. 

"Thank  God !  It's  a  wonderful  night.  The  stars 
are  asking  us  out.  Quick !  Into  your  saddle.  Now 
the  spurs.  So!  We  are  alone  and  free,  with  the 
winds  around  us,  and  all  that  we  have  been  for- 
gotten behind  us.  Irene,  look  up  with  me !" 

The  eyes  opened  wide  and  stared  up;  without  a 
stir  in  the  great,  gaunt  body  he  was  dead.  Pierre 
drew  the  eyes  reverently  shut.  There  were  no  tears 
in  his  eyes,  but  a  feeling  of  hollowness  about  his 
heart,  and  a  great  pain.  He  straightened  and 
looked  about  him  and  found  that  the  room  was 
quite  dark. 

So  in  the  dimness  Pierre  fumbled,  by  force  of 
habit,  at  his  throat,  and  found  the  cross  which  he 


THE  CORNER  PLOT  37 

wore  by  a  silver  chain  about  his  throat.  He  held  it 
in  a  great  grip  and  closed  his  eyes  and  prayed. 
When  he  opened  his  eyes  again  it  was  almost  deep 
night  in  the  room,  and  Pierre  had  passed  from  youth 
to  manhood.  Through  the  gloom  nothing  stood 
out  distinctly  save  the  white  face  of  the  dead  man, 
and  from  that  Pierre  looked  quickly  away. 

One  by  one  he  numbered  his  obligations  to  Mar- 
tin Ryder,  and  first  and  last  he  remembered  the  lie 
which  had  soothed  his  father.  The  money  for  that 
corner  plot  where  the  grass  grew  first  in  the  spring 
of  the  year — where  was  he  to  find  it?  He  fumbled 
in  his  pocket  and  found  only  a  single  coin. 

He  leaned  back  against  the  wall  and  strove  to 
concentrate  on  the  problem,  but  his  thoughts  wan- 
dered in  spite  of  himself  back  to  the  snows  of  Can- 
ada, to  the  letter,  to  the  ride  south,  the  death  of  the 
roan,  and  so  on  until  he  reached  his  entry  to  that 
very  room. 

Looking  backward,  he  remembered  all  things 
much  more  clearly  than  when  he  had  actually  seen 
them.  For  instance,  he  recalled  now  that  as  he 
walked  through  the  door  the  two  figures  which  had 
started  up  to  block  his  way  had  left  behind  them 
some  playing-cards  at  the  corner  table.  One  of 
these  cards  had  slipped  from  the  edge  of  the  board 
and  flickered  slowly  to  the  floor. 

With  that  memory  the  thoughts  of  Pierre  le 
Rouge  stopped.  The  picture  of  the  falling  card 
remained;  all  else  went  out  in  his  mind  like  the 
snuffing  of  the  candle.  Then,  as  if  he  heard  a  roice 


38  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

directing  him  through  the  utter  blackness  of  the 
room,  he  knew  what  he  must  do. 

All  his  wealth  was  the  single  half-dollar  piece  in 
his  pocket,  and  there  was  only  one  way  in  which  that 
coin  could  be  increased  to  the  sum  he  would  need 
to  buy  that  corner  plot,  where  the  soul  of  old  Mar- 
tin Ryder  could  sleep  long  and  deep. 

From  his  brothers  he  would  get  no  help.  The 
least  memory  of  those  sallow,  hungry  faces  con- 
vinced him  of  that. 

There  remained  the  gaming  table.  In  the  north 
country  he  had  watched  men  sit  in  a  silent  circle, 
smoking,  drinking,  with  the  flare  of  an  oil-lamp 
against  deep,  seamed  faces,  and  only  the  slip  and 
whisper  of  card  against  card. 

Cold  conscience  tapped  the  shoulder  of  Pierre, 
remembering  the  lessons  of  Father  Victor,  but  a  mo- 
ment later  his  head  went  up  and  his  eyes  were  shin- 
ing through  the  dark.  After  all,  the  end  justified 
the  means.  It  was  typical  of  him  that  sorrow  sat 
lightly  on  him. 

A  moment  later  he  was  laughing  softly  as  a  boy 
in  the  midst  of  a  prank,  and  busily  throwing  off  the 
robe  of  serge.  Fumbling  through  the  night  he  lo- 
cated the  shirt  and  overalls  he  had  seen  hanging 
from  a  nail  on  the  wall.  Into  these  he  slipped, 
leaned  to  kiss  the  chill,  damp  forehead  of  the 
sleeper,  and  then  went  out  under  the  open  sky. 

The  rest  had  revived  the  strength  of  the  tough 
little  cow-pony,  and  he  drove  on  at  a  gallop  toward 
the  twinkling  lights  of  Morgantown.  There  was 
a  new  consciousness  about  Pierre  as  if  he  had 


THE  CORNER  PLOT  39 

changed  his  whole  nature  with  his  clothes.  The 
sober  sense  of  duty  which  had  kept  him  in  awe  all 
his  life  like  a  lifted  finger,  was  almost  gone,  and  in 
its  place  was  a  joyous  freedom. 

For  the  first  time  he  faintly  realized  what  an 
existence  other  than  that  of  a  priest  might  be.  Now 
for  a  brief  moment  he  could  forget  the  part  of  the 
subdued  novice  and  become  merely  a  man  with  noth- 
ing about  him  to  distinguish  him  from  other  men, 
nothing  to  make  heads  turn  at  his  approach  and 
raise  whispers  as  he  passed. 

It  was  a  game,  but  he  rejoiced  in  it  as  a  girl  does 
in  her  first  masquerade.  To-morrow  he  must  be 
grave  and  sober-footed  and  an  example  to  other 
men;  to-night  he  could  frolic  as  he  pleased.  The 
good  Father  Victor  would  hear  and  frown,  per- 
haps, but  remembering  the  purpose  for  which  the 
thing  was  done  he  would  forgive. 

So  Pierre  le  Rouge  tossed  back  his  head  and 
laughed  up  to  the  frosty  stars.  The  loose  sleeves 
and  the  skirts  of  the  robe  no  longer  entangled  his 
limbs.  He  threw  up  his  arms  and  shouted  A  hill- 
side caught  the  sound  and  echoed  it  back  to  him 
with  a  wonderful  clearness,  and  up  and  down  the 
long  ravine  beat  the  clatter  of  the  flying  hoofs.  The 
whole  world  shouted  and  laughed  and  rode  with 
him  on  Morgantown. 

If  the  people  in  the  houses  that  he  passed  had 
known  they  would  have  started  up  from  their  chairs 
and  taken  rifle  and  horse  and  after  him  on  the  trail. 
But  how  could  they  tell  from  the  passing  of  those 


40  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

ringing  hoofs  that  Pierre,  the  novice,  was  dead,  and 
Red  Pierre  was  born? 

So  they  drowsed  on  about  their  comfortable  fires, 
and  Pierre  drew  rein  with  a  jerk  before  the  largest 
of  Morgantown's  saloons.  With  a  hand  on  the 
swinging  doors  he  paused  a  breathless  moment, 
thinking,  doubting,  wondering — and  a  little  cold  of 
heart  like  the  boy  who  stands  on  the  bank  of  the 
river  to  take  the  first  plunge  in  the  spring  of  the 
year.  He  had  to  set  his  teeth  before  he  could  sum- 
mon the  resolution  to  throw  open  the  door.  It  was 
done;  he  stepped  inside,  and  stood  blinking  in  the 
sudden  rush  of  light  against  his  face. 

It  was  all  bewildering  at  first;  the  radiance,  the 
blue  tangle  of  smoke,  the  storm  of  voices.  For  Mul- 
doon's  was  packed  from  door  to  door.  Coins  rang 
in  a  steady  chorus  along  the  bar,  and  the  crowd 
waited  three  and  four  deep. 

Some  one  was  singing  a  rollicking  song  of  the 
range  at  one  end  of  the  bar,  and  a  chorus  of  four 
bellowed  a  profane  parody  at  the  other  end. 

The  ears  of  Pierre  le  Rouge  tingled  hotly,  and 
he  lowered  his  eyes  to  the  floor.  Truly,  Father  Vic- 
tor would  be  very  wrath  when  all  this  was  confessed. 
Partly  to  escape  this  uproar  he  worked  his  way  to 
the  quieter  room  at  the  back  of  the  saloon. 

It  was  almost  as  crowded  as  the  bar,  but  here  no 
one  spoke  except  for  an  occasional  growl.  Sudden 
speaking,  and  a  loud  voice,  indeed,  was  hardly  safe. 
Some  one  cursed  at  his  ill-luck  as  Pierre  entered,  and 
a  dozen  hands  reached  for  six-guns.  In  such  a  place 
one  had  to  be  prepared. 


THE  CORNER  PLOT  41 

Pierre  remembered  with  quick  dismay  that  he  was 
not  armed.  All  his  life  the  straight  black  gown  had 
been  weapon  enough  to  make  all  men  give  way  be- 
fore him.  Now  he  carried  no  borrowed  strength 
upon  his  shoulders. 

Automatically  he  slipped  his  fingers  under  the 
breast  of  his  shirt  until  their  tips  touched  the  cold 
metal  of  the  cross.  That  gave  him  stronger  cour- 
age. The  joy  of  the  adventure  made  his  blood  warm 
again  as  he  drew  out  his  one  coin  and  looked  for  a 
place  to  start  his  venture. 

"It  is  God  who  governs  me/*  he  said,  "and  why 
should  I  doubt  Him  ?" 

So  he  approached  the  nearest  table.  On  the  sur- 
face of  it  were  marked  six  squares  with  chalk,  and 
each  with  its  appropriate  number.  The  man  who 
ran  the  game  stood  behind  the  table  and  shook  three 
dice.  The  numbers  which  turned  up  paid  the  gamb- 
ler. The  numbers  which  failed  to  show  paid  the 
owner  of  the  game. 

His  luck  had  been  too  strong  that  night,  and  now 
only  two  men  faced  him,  and  both  of  them  lost  per- 
sistently. They  had  passed  the  stage  of  intelligent 
gaming;  they  were  "bucking"  the  dice  with  savage 
stubbornness. 

Pierre  edged  closer,  shut  his  eyes,  and  deposited 
his  coin.  When  he  looked  again  he  saw  that  he  had 
wagered  on  the  fire. 


CHAPTER  V 

HURLEY 

THE  dice  clattered  across  the  table  and  were 
swept  up  by  the  hand  of  the  man  behind  the  table 
before  Pierre  could  note  them.  Sick  at  heart,  he 
began  to  turn  away,  as  he  saw  that  hand  reach  out 
and  gather  in  the  coins  of  the  other  two  betters.  It 
went  out  a  third  time  and  laid  another  fifty-cent 
piece  upon  his.  The  heart  of  Pierre  bounded  up  to 
his  throat. 

Again  the  dice  rolled,  and  this  time  he  saw  dis- 
tinctly two  fives  turn  up.  Two  dollars  in  silver  were 
dropped  upon  his,  and  still  he  let  the  money  lie. 
Again,  again,  and  again  the  dice  rolled.  And  now 
there  were  pieces  of  gold  among  the  silver  that  cov- 
ered the  square  of  the  five. 

The  other  two  looked  askance  at  him,  and  the 
owner  of  the  game  growled:  "Gimme  room  for  the 
coins,  stranger,  will  you?" 

Pierre  picked  up  his  winnings.  In  his  left  hand 
he  held  them,  and  the  coins  brimmed  his  cupped 
palm.  With  the  free  hand  he  placed  his  new  wag- 
ers. But  he  lost  now. 

"I  cannot  win  forever,"  thought  Pierre,  and  re- 
doubled his  bets  in  an  effort  to  regain  the  lost 
ground. 

4* 


HURLEY  43 

Still  his  little  fortune  dwindled,  till  the  sweat  came 
out  on  his  forehead  and  the  blood  that  had  flushed 
his  face  ran  back  and  left  him  pale  with  dread.  And 
at  last  there  remained  only  one  gold  piece.  He  hesi- 
tated, holding  it  poised  for  the  wager,  while  the 
owner  of  the  game  rattled  the  dice  loudly  and  looked 
up  at  the  coin  with  hungry  eyes. 

Once  more  Pierre  closed  his  eyes  and  laid  his 
wager,  while  his  empty  left  hand  slipped  again  in- 
side his  shirt  and  touched  the  metal  of  the  cross, 
and  once  more  when  he  opened  his  eyes  the  hand 
of  the  gambler  was  going  out  to  lay  a  second  coin 
over  his. 

"It  is  the  cross!"  thought  Pierre,  and  thrilled 
mightily.  "It  is  the  cross  which  brings  me  luck." 

The  dice  rattled  out.  He  won.  Again,  and  still 
he  won.  The  gambler  wiped  his  forehead  and 
looked  up  anxiously.  For  these  were  wagers  in 
gold,  and  the  doubling  stakes  were  running  high. 
About  Pierre  a  crowd  had  grown — a  dozen  cattle- 
men who  watched  the  growing  heap  of  gold  with 
silent  fascination.  Then  they  began  to  make  wagers 
of  their  own,  and  there  were  faint  whispers  of 
wrath  and  astonishment  as  the  dice  clicked  out  and 
each  time  the  winnings  of  Pierre  doubled. 

Suddenly  the  dealer  stopped  and  held  up  his  left 
hand  as  a  warning.  With  his  right,  very  slowly,  inch 
by  inch  lest  any  one  should  suspect  him  of  a  gun 
play,  he  drew  out  a  heavy  forty-five  and  laid  it  on 
the  table  with  the  belt  of  cartridges. 

"Three  years  she's  been  on  my  hip  through  thick 
and  thin,  stranger.  Three  years  she's  shot  close 


44  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

an*  true.  There  ain't  a  butt  in  the  world  that  hugs 
your  hand  tighter.  There  ain't  a  cylinder  that  spins 
easier.  Shoot?  Lad,  even  a  kid  like  you  could  be 
a  killer  with  that  six-gun.  What  will  you  lay  ag'in' 
it?" 

And  his  red-stained  eyes  glanced  covetously  at 
the  yellow  heap  of  Pierre's  money. 

"How  much?"  said  Pierre  eagerly.  "Is  there 
enough  on  the  table  to  buy  the  gun?" 

"Buy?"  said  the  other  fiercely.  "There  ain't 
enough  coin  west  of  the  Rockies  to  buy  that  gun. 
D'you  think  I'm  yaller  hound  enough  to  sell  my  six? 
No,  but  I'll  risk  it  in  a  fair  bet.  There  ain't  no  dis- 
grace in  that;  eh,  pals?" 

There  was  a  chorus  of  low  grunts  of  assent. 

"All  right,"  said  Pierre.  "That  pile  against  the 
gun." 

"All  of  it?" 

"All." 

"Look  here,  kid,  if  you're  tryin'  to  play  a  charity 
game  with  me — " 

"Charity?" 

The  direct,  frank  surprise  of  that  look  disarmed 
the  other.  He  swept  up  the  dice-box,  and  shook  it 
furiously,  while  his  lips  stirred.  It  was  as  if  he 
murmured  an  incantation  for  success.  The  dice 
rolled  out,  winking  in  the  light,  spun  over,  and  the 
owner  of  the  gun  stood  with  both  hands  braced 
against  the  edge  of  the  table,  and  stared  hopelessly 
down. 

A  moment  before  his  pockets  had  sagged  with  a 
precious  weight,  and  there  had  been  a  significant 


HURLEY  45 

drag  of  the  belt  over  his  right  hip.  Now  both  bur- 
dens were  gone. 

He  looked  up  with  a  short  laugh. 

"I'm  dry.    Who'll  stake  me  to  a  drink?" 

Pierre  scooped  up  a  dozen  pieces  of  the  gold. 

"Here." 

The  other  drew  back. 

"You're  very  welcome  to  it.  Here's  more,  if 
you'll  have  it." 

"The  coin  I've  lost  to  you?  Take  back  a  gamblin' 
debt?" 

"Easy  there,"  said  one  of  the  men.  "Don't  you 
see  the  kid's  green?  Here's  a  five-spot." 

The  loser  accepted  the  coin  as  carelessly  as  if  he 
were  conferring  a  favor  by  taking  it,  cast  another 
scowl  in  the  direction  of  Pierre,  and  went  out  to- 
ward the  bar.  Pierre,  very  hot  in  the  face,  pocketed 
his  winnings  and  belted  on  the  gun.  It  hung  low 
on  his  thigh,  just  in  easy  gripping  distance  of  his 
hand,  and  he  fingered  the  butt  with  a  smile. 

"The  kid's  feelin'  most  a  man,"  remarked  a  sar- 
castic voice.  "Say,  kid,  why  don't  you  try  your 
luck  with  Mac  Hurley?  He's  almost  through  with 
poor,  old  Cochrane." 

Following  the  direction  of  the  pointing  finger, 
Pierre  saw  one  of  those  mute  tragedies  of  the  gamb- 
ling hall.  Cochrane,  an  old  cattleman  whose  care- 
fully trimmed,  pointed  white  beard  and  slender,  tnp- 
ering  fingers  set  him  apart  from  the  others  in  the 
room,  was  rather  far  gone  with  liquor.  He  was 
still  stiffly  erect  in  his  chair,  and  would  be  till  the 
very  moment  consciousness  left  him,  but  his  eyes 


46  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

were  misty,  and  when  he  spoke  the  fine-cut  lips 
moved  slowly,  as  though  numbed  by  cold. 

Beside  him  stood  a  tall,  black  bottle  with  a  little 
whisky  glass  to  flank  it.  He  made  his  bets  with 
apparent  carelessness,  but  with  a  real  and  deepen- 
ing gloom.  Once  or  twice  he  glanced  up  sharply 
as  though  reckoning  his  losses,  though  it  seemed  to 
Pierre  le  Rouge  almost  like  an  appeal. 

And  what  appeal  could  affect  Mac  Hurley? 
There  was  no  color  in  the  man,  either  body  or  soul. 
No  emotion  could  show  in  those  pale,  small  eyes 
or  change  the  color  of  the  flabby  cheeks.  If  his 
hands  had  been  cut  off  he  might  have  seemed  some 
sodden  victim  of  a  drug  habit,  but  the  hands  saved 
him. 

They  seemed  to  belong  to  another  body — beau- 
tiful, swift,  and  strong,  and  grafted  by  some  foul 
mischance  onto  this  rotten  hulk.  Very  white  they 
were,  and  long,  with  a  nervous  uneasiness  in  every 
motion,  continually  hovering  around  the  cards  with 
little  touches  which  were  almost  caresses. 

"It  ain't  a  game,"  said  the  man  who  had  first 
pointed  out  the  group  to  Pierre,  "it's  just  a 
slaughter.  Cochrane's  too  far  gone  to  see  straight. 
Look  at  that  deal  now!  A  kid  could  see  that  he's 
crooking  the  cards!" 

It  was  Blackjack,  and  Hurley,  as  usual,  was  deal- 
ing. He  dealt  with  one  hand,  flipping  the  cards  out 
with  a  snap  of  the  wrist,  the  fingers  working  rapidly 
over  the  pack.  Now  and  then  he  glanced  over  to 
the  crowd,  as  if  to  enjoy  their  admiration  of  his 
skill.  He  was  showing  it  now,  not  so  much  by  the 


HURLEY  47 

deftness  of  his  cheating  as  by  the  openness  with 
which  he  exposed  his  tricks. 

As  the  stranger  remarked  to  Pierre,  a  child  could 
have  discovered  that  the  cards  were  being  dealt  at 
will  from  the  top  and  the  bottom  of  the  pack,  but 
the  gambler  was  enjoying  himself  by  keeping  his 
game  just  open  enough  to  be  apparent  to  every  other 
man  in  the  room — just  covert  enough  to  deceive  the 
drink-misted  brain  of  Cochrane.  And  the  pale,  swin- 
ish eyes  twinkled  as  they  stared  across  at  the  dull 
sorrow  of  the  old  man.  There  was  an  ominous 
sound  from  Pierre: 

"Do  you  let  a  thing  like  that  happen  in  this  coun- 
try?" he  asked  fiercely. 

The  other  turned  to  him  with  a  sneer. 

"Let  it  happen?  Who'll  stop  him?  Say,  partner, 
you  ain't  meanin'  to  say  that  you  don't  know  who 
Hurley  is?" 

"I  don't  need  telling.     I  can  see." 

"What  you  can't  see  means  a  lot  more  than  what 
you  can.  I've  been  in  the  same  room  when  Hurley 
worked  his  gun  once.  It  wasn't  any  killin',  but  it 
was  the  prettiest  bit  of  cheatin'  I  ever  seen.  But 
even  if  Hurley  wasn't  enough,  what  about  Carl 
Diaz?" 

He  glared  his  triumph  at  Pierre,  but  the  latter 
was  too  puzzled  to  quail,  and  too  stirred  by  the 
pale,  gloomy  face  of  Cochrane  to  turn  toward  the 
other. 

"What  of  Diaz?" 

"Look  here,  boy.     You're  a  kid,  all  right,  but 


48  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

you  ain't  that  young.  D'you  mean  to  say  that  you 
ain't  heard  of  Carlos  Diaz?" 

It  came  back  to  Pierre  then,  for  even  into  the 
snow-bound  seclusion  of  the  north  country  the 
shadow  of  the  name  of  Diaz  had  gone.  He  could 
not  remember  just  what  they  were,  but  he  seemed 
to  recollect  grim  tales  through  which  that  name 
figured. 

The  other  went  on:  "But  if  you  ain't  ever  seen 
him  before,  look  him  over  now.  They's  some  says 
he's  faster  on  the  draw  than  Bob  McGurk,  but,  of 
course,  that's  stretchin'  him  out  a  size  too  much. 
What's  the  matter,  kid;  youVe  met  McGurk?" 

"No,  but  I'm  going  to." 

"Might  even  be  carried  to  him,  eh — feet  first?" 

Pierre  turned  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  other. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,"  he  said  gently.  "I  don't 
like  it." 

The  other  reached  up  to  snatch  the  hand  from 
his  shoulder,  but  he  stayed  his  arm. 

He  said  after  an  uncomfortable  moment  of  that 
silent  staring:  "Well,  partner,  there  ain't  a  hell  of 
a  lot  to  get  sore  over,  is  there?  You  don't  figure 
you're  a  mate  for  McGurk,  do  you?" 

He  seemed  oddly  relieved  when  the  eyes  of  Pierre 
moved  away  from  him  and  returned  to  the  figure 
of  Carlos  Diaz.  The  Mexican  was  a  perfect  model 
for  a  painting  of  a  melodramatic  villain.  He  had 
waxed  and  twirled  the  end  of  his  black  mustache 
so  that  it  thrust  out  a  little  spur  on  either  side  of 
his  long  face.  His  habitual  expression  was  a  scowl ; 


HURLEY  49 

his  habitual  position  was  with  a  cigarette  in  the  fin- 
gers of  his  left  hand,  and  his  right  hand  resting  on 
his  hip. 

He  sat  in  a  chair  directly  behind  that  of  Hurley, 
and  Pierre's  new-found  acquaintance  explained: 
"He's  the  bodyguard  for  Hurley.  Maybe  there's 
some  who  could  down  Hurley  in  a  straight  gun  fight ; 
maybe  there's  one  or  two  like  McGurk  that  could 
down  Diaz — damn  his  yellow  hide — but  there  ain't 
no  one  can  buck  the  two  of  'em.  It  ain't  in  reason. 
So  they  play  the  game  together.  Hurley  works  the 
cards  and  Diaz  covers  up  the  retreat.  Can't  beat 
that,  can  you?" 

Pierre  le  Rouge  slipped  his  left  hand  once  more 
inside  his  shirt  until  the  fingers  touched  the  cross. 

"Nevertheless,  that  game  has  to  stop." 

"Who'll — say,  kid,  are  you  stringin'  me,  or  are 
you  drunk?  Look  me  in  the  eye  1" 


CHAPTER  VI 

FEAR 

PIERRE  turned  and  looked  calmly  upon  the  other. 

And  the  man  whispered  in  a  sort  of  awe :  "Well, 
I'D  be  damned  I" 

"Stand  aside !" 

The  other  fell  back  a  pace,  and  Pierre  went 
straight  to  the  table  and  said  to  Cochrane:  "Sir,  I 
have  come  to  take  you  home." 

The  old  man  looked  up  and  rubbed  his  eyes  as 
though  waking  from  a  sleep. 

"Stand  back  from  the  table!"  warned  Hurley. 

"By  the  Lord,  have  they  been  missing  me?1'  quer- 
ied old  Cochrane. 

"You  are  waited  for,"  answered  Pierre  le  Rouge, 
"and  I've  been  sent  to  take  you  home." 

"If  that's  the  case—" 

"It  ain't  the  case.     The  kid's  lying." 

'"Lying?"  repeated  Cochrane,  as  if  he  had  never 
heard  the  word  before,  and  he  peered  with  clearing 
eyes  toward  Pierre.  "No,  I  think  this  boy  has  never 
lied." 

Silence  had  spread  through  the  place  like  a  vapor. 
Even  the  slight  sounds  in  the  gaming-room  were 
done  now,  and  one  pair  after  another  of  eyes  swung 
toward  the  table  of  Cochrane  and  Hurley.  The 

50 


FEAR  51 

wave  of  the  silence  reached  to  the  barroom.  No 
one  could  have  carried  the  tidings  so  soon,  but  the 
air  was  surcharged  with  the  consciousness  of  an  im- 
pending crisis. 

Half  a  dozen  men  started  to  make  their  way  on 
tiptoe  toward  the  back  room.  One  stood  with  his 
whisky  glass  suspended  in  mid  air,  and  tilted  back 
his  head  to  listen.  In  the  gaming-room  Hurley 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  leaned  to  the  left,  giving 
him  a  free  sweep  for  his  right  hand.  The  Mexican 
smiled  with  a  slow  and  deep  content. 

"Thank  you,"  answered  Pierre,  ubut  I  ani  wait- 
ing still,  sir." 

The  left  hand  of  Hurley  played  impatiently  on 
the  table. 

He  said:  "Of  course,  if  you  have  enough — " 

"I — enough?"  flared  the  old  aristocrat 

Pierre  le  Rouge  turned  fairly  upon  Hurley. 

"In  the  name  of  God,"  he  said  calmly,  and  God 
on  his  lips  was  as  gentle  as  music,  "make  an  end  of 
your  game.  You're  playing  for  money,  but  I  think 
this  man  is  playing  for  his  eternal  soul." 

The  solemn,  bookish  phraseology  came  smoothly 
from  his  tongue.  He  knew  no  other.  It  drew  a 
murmur  of  amusement  from  the  room  and  a  snarl 
from  Hurley. 

"Put  on  skirts,  kid,  and  join  the  Salvation  Army, 
but  don't  get  yourself  messed  all  up  in  here.  This 
is  my  party,  and  I'm  damned  particular  who  I  in- 
vite! Now,  run  along!" 

The  head  of  Pierre  tilted  back,  and  he  burst  into 
laughter  which  troubled  even  Hurley. 


5*          RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

The  gambler  blurted:  "What's  happening  to  you, 
kid?" 

"I've  been  making  a  lot  of  good  resolutions,  Mr. 
Hurley,  about  keeping  out  of  trouble ;  but  here  I  am 
in  it  up  to  the  neck." 

"No  trouble  as  long  as  you  keep  your  hand  out 
of  another  man's  game,  kid." 

"That's  it.  I  can't  see  you  rob  Mr.  Cochrane 
like  this.  You  aren't  gambling — you're  digging 
gold.  The  game  stops  now." 

•It  was  a  moment  before  the  crowd  realized  what 
was  about  to  happen;  they  saw  it  reflected  first  in 
the  face  of  Hurley,  which  suddenly  went  taut  and 
pale,  and  then,  even  as  they  looked  with  a  smile 
of  curiosity  and  derision  toward  Pierre  le  Rouge, 
they  saw  and  understood. 

For  the  moment  Pierre  said,  "The  game  stops 
now,"  the  calm  which  had  been  with  him  was  gone. 
It  was  like  the  scent  of  blood  to  the  starved  wolf. 
The  last  word  was  scarcely  off  his  tongue  when  he 
was  crouched  with  a  devil  of  green  fury  in  his  eyes — 
the  light  struck  his  hair  into  a  wave  of  flame — his 
face  altered  by  a  dozen  ugly  years. 

"D'you  mean?"  whispered  Hurley,  as  if  he  feared 
to  break  the  silence  with  his  full  voice. 

"Get  out  of  the  room." 

And  the  impulse  of  Hurley,  plainly  enough,  was 
to  obey  the  order,  and  go  anywhere  to  escape  from 
that  relentless  stare.  His  glance  wavered  and 
flashed  around  the  circle  and  then  back  to  Red 
Pierre,  for  the  expectancy  and  the  alertness  of  all 
the  crowd  forced  him  back. 


FEAR  53 

When  the  leader  of  the  pack  springs  and  fails  to 
kill,  the  rest  of  the  pack  tear  him  to  pieces.  Re- 
membering this,  Mac  Hurley  forced  his  glance  back 
to  Pierre.  Moreover,  there  was  a  soft  voice  from 
behind,  and  he  remembered  Diaz. 

All  this  had  taken  place  in  the  length  of  time 
that  it  takes  a  heavy  body  to  totter  on  the  brink 
of  a  precipice  or  a  cat  to  regain  its  feet  after  a  fall. 
After  the  voice  of  Diaz  there  was  a  sway  through 
the  room,  a  pulse  of  silence,  and  then  three  hands 
shot  for  their  hips — Pierre,  Diaz,  and  Hurley. 

No  stop-watch  could  have  caught  the  differing 
lengths  of  time  which  each  required  for  the  draw. 
The  muzzle  of  Hurley's  revolver  was  not  clear  of 
the  holster — the  gun  of  Diaz  was  nearly  at  the  level 
when  Pierre's  weapon  exploded  at  his  hip.  The 
bullet  cut  through  the  wrist  of  Hurley.  Never  again 
would  that  slender,  supple  hand  fly  over  the  cards, 
doing  things  other  than  they  seemed.  He  made  no 
effort  to  escape  from  the  next  bullet,  but  stood  look- 
ing down  at  his  broken  wrist;  horror  for  the  mo- 
ment gave  him  a  dignity  oddly  out  of  place  with 
his  usual  appearance.  He  alone  in  all  the  room 
was  moveless. 

The  crowd,  undecided  for  an  instant,  broke  for 
the  doors  at  the  first  shot ;  Pierre  le  Rouge,  pitched 
to  the  floor  as  Diaz  leaped  forward,  the  revolver 
in  either  hand  spitting  lead  and  fire. 

It  was  no  bullet  that  downed  Pierre  but  his  own 
cunning.  He  broke  his  fall  with  an  outstretched  left 
hand,  while  the  bullets  of  Diaz  pumped  into  the 


54          RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

void  space  which  his  body  had  filled  a  moment 
before. 

Lying  there  at  ease,  he  leveled  the  revolver,  grin- 
ning with  the  mirthless  lust  of  battle,  and  fired  over 
the  top  of  the  table.  The  guns  dropped  from  the 
hands  of  huge  Diaz.  He  caught  at  his  throat  and 
staggered  back  the  full  length  of  the  room,  crashing 
against  the  wall.  When  he  pitched  forward  on  his 
face  he  was  dead  before  he  struck  the  floor. 

Pierre,  now  Red  Pierre,  indeed,  rose  and  ran  to 
the  fallen  man,  and,  looking  at  the  bulk  of  the  giant, 
he  wondered  with  a  cold  heart.  He  knew  before 
he  slipped  his  hand  over  the  breast  of  Diaz  that 
this  was  death.  Then  he  rose  again  and  watched 
the  still  fingers  which  seemed  to  be  gripping  at  the 
boards. 

These  he  saw,  and  nothing  else,  and  all  he  heard 
was  the  rattling  of  the  wind  of  winter,  wrenching 
at  some  loose  shingle  on  the  roof,  and  he  knew  that 
he  was  alone  in  the  world,  for  he  had  put  out  a  life. 

He  found  a  strange  weight  pulling  down  his  right 
hand,  and  started  when  he  saw  the  revolver.  He 
replaced  it  in  the  holster  automatically,  and  in  so 
doing  touched  the  barrel  and  found  it  warm. 

Then  fear  came  to  Pierre,  the  first  real  fear  of  his 
life.  He  jerked  his  head  high  and  looked  about 
him.  The  room  was  utterly  empty.  He  tiptoed  to 
the  door  and  found  even  the  long  bar  deserted,  lit- 
tered with  tall  bottles  and  overturned  glasses.  The 
cold  in  his  heart  increased.  A  moment  before  he 
had  been  hand  in  hand  with  all  the  mirth  in  that 
place. 


FEAR  55 

Now  the  men  whose  laughter  he  had  repeated 
with  smiles,  the  men  against  whose  sleeves  his  el- 
bow had  touched,  were  further  away  from  him  than 
they  had  been  when  all  the  snow-covered  miles  from 
Morgantown  to  the  school  of  Father  Victor  had 
laid  between  them.  They  were  men  who  might  lose 
themselves  in  any  crowd,  but  he  was  set  apart  with 
a  brand,  even  as  Hurley  and  Diaz  had  been  set  apart 
that  eventful  evening. 

He  had  killed  a  man.  That  fact  blotted  out  the 
world.  He  drew  his  gun  again  and  stole  down  the 
length  of  the  bar.  Once  he  stopped  and  poised  the 
weapon  before  he  realized  that  the  white,  fierce  face 
that  squinted  at  him  was  his  own  reflection  in  a 
mirror. 

Outside  the  door  the  free  wind  caught  at  his  face, 
and  he  blessed  it  in  his  heart,  as  if  it  had  been  the 
touch  of  the  hand  of  a  friend.  Beyond  the  long, 
dark,  silent  street  the  moon  rose  and  passed  up 
through  the  safe,  dark  spaces  of  the  sky. 

He  must  move  quickly  now.  The  pursuit  was 
not  yet  organized,  but  it  would  begin  in  a  space  of 
minutes.  From  the  group  of  half  a  dozen  horses 
which  stood  before  the  saloon  he  selected  the  best — 
a  tall,  raw-boned  nag  with  an  ugly  head.  Into  the 
saddle  he  swung,  wondering  faintly  that  the  theft 
of  a  horse  mattered  so  little  to  him.  His  was  the 
greatest  sin.  All  other  things  mattered  nothing. 

Down  the  long  street  he  galloped.  The  sharp 
echoes  flew  out  at  him  from  every  unlighted  house, 
but  not  a  human  being  was  in  sight.  So  he  swung 
out  onto  the  long  road  which  wound  up  through  the 


56          RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

hills,  and  beside  him  rode  a  grim  brotherhood,  the 
invisible  fellowship  of  Cain. 

The  moon  rose  higher,  brighter,  and  a  grotesque 
black  shadow  galloped  over  the  snow  beside  him. 
He  turned  his  head  sharply  to  the  other  side  and 
watched  the  sweep  of  white  hills  which  reached  back 
in  range  after  range  until  they  blended  with  the 
shadows  of  night. 

The  road  faded  to  a  bridle  path,  and  this  in  turn 
he  lost  among  the  windings  of  the  valley.  He  was 
lost  from  even  the  traces  of  men,  and  yet  the  fear 
of  men  pursued  him.  Fear,  and  yet  with  it  there 
was  a  thrill  of  happiness,  for  every  swinging  stride 
of  the  tall,  wild  roan  carried  him  deeper  into  free- 
dom, the  unutterable  fierce  freedom  of  the  hunted. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  VOICE  IN  THE  STORM 

ALL  life  was  tame  compared  with  this  sudden 
awakening  of  Pierre,  for  his  whole  being  burst  into 
flower,  his  whole  nature  opened.  He  had  killed  a 
man.  For  fear  of  it  he  raced  the  tall  roan  furiously 
through  the  night. 

He  had  killed  a  man.  For  the  joy  of  it  his  head 
was  high,  he  shouted  a  song  that  went  ringing  across 
the  blank,  white  hills.  What  place  was  there  in  Red 
Pierre  for  solemn  qualms  of  conscience?  Had  he 
not  met  the  first  and  last  test  triumphantly?  The 
oldest  instinct  in  creation  was  satisfied  in  him.  Now 
he  stood  ready  to  say  to  all  the  world:  Behold,  a 
man! 

Let  it  be  remembered  that  his  early  years  had 
been  passed  in  a  dull,  dun  silence,  and  time  had 
slipped  by  him  with  softly  padding,  uneventful  hours. 
Now,  with  the  rope  of  restraint  snapped,  he  rode 
at  the  world  with  hands,  palm  upward,  asking  for 
life,  and  that  life  which  lies  under  the  hills  of  the 
mountain-desert  heard  his  question  and  sent  a  cold, 
sharp  echo  back  to  answer  his  lusty  singing. 

The  first  answer,  as  he  plunged  on,  not  knowing 
where,  and  not  caring,  was  when  the  roan  reeled 
suddenly  and  flung  forward  to  the  ground.  Even 

57 


58          RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

that  violent  stop  did  not  unseat  Red  Pierre.  He 
jerked  up  on  the  reins  with  a  curse  and  drove  in  the 
spurs.  Valiantly  the  horse  reared  his  shoulders  up, 
but  when  he  strove  to  rise  the  right  foreleg  dangled 
helplessly.  He  had  stepped  in  some  hole  and  the 
bone  was  broken  cleanly  across. 

The  rider  slipped  from  the  saddle  and  stood  fac- 
ing the  roan,  which  pricked  its  ears  forward  and 
struggled  once  more  to  regain  its  feet.  The  effort 
was  hopeless,  and  Pierre  took  the  broken  leg  and 
felt  the  rough  edges  of  the  splintered  bone  through 
the  skin.  The  animal,  as  if  it  sensed  that  the  man 
was  trying  to  do  it  some  good,  nosed  his  shoulder 
and  whinnied  softly. 

Pierre  stepped  back  and  drew  his  revolver.  The 
bullet  would  do  quickly  what  the  cold  would  accom- 
plish after  lingering  hours  of  torture,  yet,  facing 
those  pricking  ears  and  the  brave  trust  of  the  eyes, 
he  was  blinded  by  a  mist  and  could  not  aim.  He 
had  to  place  the  muzzle  of  the  gun  against  the  roan's 
temple  and  pull  the  trigger.  When  he  turned  his 
back  he  was  the  only  living  thing  within  the  white 
arms  of  the  hills. 

Yet,  when  the  next  hill  was  behind  him,  he  had 
already  forgotten  the  second  life  which  he  put  out 
that  night,  for  regret  is  the  one  sorrow  which  never 
dodges  the  footsteps  of  the  hunted.  Like  all  his 
brotherhood  of  Cain,  Pierre  le  Rouge  pressed  for- 
ward across  the  mountain-desert  with  his  face  turned 
toward  the  brave  to-morrow.  In  the  evening  of  his 
life,  if  he  should  live  to  that  time,  he  would  walk 
and  talk  with  God. 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  STORM         59 

Now  he  had  no  mind  save  for  the  bright  day 
coming. 

He  had  been  riding  with  the  wind  and  had  scarcely 
noticed  its  violence  in  his  headlong  course.  Now 
he  felt  it  whipping  sharply  at  his  back  and  increas- 
ing with  each  step.  Overhead  the  sky  was  clear, 
pitilessly  clear.  It  seemed  to  give  vision  for  the 
wind  and  cold  to  seek  him  out,  and  the  moon  made 
his  following  shadow  long  and  black  across  the 
snow. 

The  wind  quickened  rapidly  to  a  gale  that  cut  off 
the  surface  of  the  snow  and  whipped  volleys  of  the 
small  particles  level  with  the  surface.  It  cut  the 
neck  of  Red  Pierre,  and  the  gusts  struck  his  shoul- 
ders with  staggering  force  like  separate  blows, 
twisting  him  a  little  from  side  to  side. 

Coming  from  the  direction  of  Morgantown,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  vengeance  for  Diaz  was  following 
the  slayer.  Once  he  turned  and  laughed  hard  and 
short  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind,  and  shook  his  fist  back 
at  Morgantown  and  all  the  avenging  powers  of  the 
law. 

Yet  he  was  glad  to  turn  away  from  the  face  of 
the  storm  and  stride  on  down-wind.  Even  traveling 
with  the  gale  grew  more  and  more  impossible.  The 
snowdrifts  which  the  wind  picked  up  and  hurried 
across  the  hills  pressed  against  Pierre's  back  like  a 
great,  invisible  hand,  bowing  him  as  if  beneath  a 
burden.  In  the  hollows  the  labor  was  not  so  great, 
but  when  he  approached  a  summit  the  gale  screamed 
in  his  ear  and  struck  him  savagely. 

For  all  his  optimism,  for  all  his  young,  undrained 


60  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

strength,  a  doubt  began  to  grow  in  the  mind  of 
Pierre  le  Rouge.  At  length,  remembering  how  that 
weight  of  gold  came  in  his  pockets,  he  slipped  his 
left  hand  into  the  bosom  of  his  shirt  and  touched 
the  icy  metal  of  the  cross.  Almost  at  once  he  heard, 
or  thought  he  heard,  a  faint,  sweet  sound  of  singing. 

The  heart  of  Red  Pierre  stopped.  For  he  knew 
the  visions  which  came  to  men  perishing  with  cold; 
but  he  grew  calmer  again  in  a  moment.  This  touch 
of  cold  was  nothing  compared  with  whole  months 
of  hard  exposure  which  he  had  endured  in  the  north- 
land.  It  had  not  the  edge.  If  it  were  not  for  the 
wind  it  was  scarcely  a  threat  to  life.  Moreover, 
the  singing  sounded  no  more.  It  had  been  hardly 
more  than  a  phrase  of  music,  and  it  must  have  been 
a  deceptive  murmur  of  the  wind. 

After  all,  a  gale  brought  wilder  deceptions  than 
that.  Some  men  had  actually  heard  voices  declaim- 
ing words  in  such  a  wind.  He  himself  had  heard 
them  tell  their  stories.  So  he  leaned  forward  again 
and  gave  his  stanch  heart  to  the  task.  Yet  once 
more  he  stopped,  for  this  time  the  singing  came 
clearly,  sweetly  to  him. 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it  now.  Of  course  it  was 
wildly  impossible,  absurd;  but  beyond  all  question 
he  heard  the  voice  of  a  woman,  high  and  tender, 
come  whistling  down  the  wind.  He  could  almost 
catch  the  words.  For  a  little  moment  he  lingered 
still.  Then  he  turned  and  fought  his  way  into  the 
strong  arms  of  the  storm. 

Every  now  and  then  he  paused  and  crouched  to 
the  snow.  Usually  there  was  only  the  shriek  of  the 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  STORM         61 

wind  in  his  ears,  but  a  few  times  the  singing  came 
to  him  and  urged  him  on.  If  he  had  allowed  the 
idea  of  failure  to  enter  his  mind,  he  must  have  given 
up  the  struggle,  but  failure  was  a  stranger  to  his 
thoughts. 

He  lowered  his  head  against  the  storm.  Some- 
times it  caught  under  him  and  nearly  lifted  him 
from  his  feet.  But  he  clung  against  the  slope  of  the 
hill,  sometimes  gripping  hard  with  his  hands.  So  he 
worked  his  way  to  the  right,  the  sound  of  the  sing- 
ing coming  more  and  more  frequently  and  louder 
and  louder.  When  he  was  almost  upon  the  source 
of  the  music  it  ceased  abruptly. 

He  waited  a  moment,  but  no  sound  came.  He 
struggled  forward  a  few  more  yards  and  pitched 
down  exhausted,  panting.  Still  he  heard  the  sing- 
ing no  longer.  With  a  falling  heart  he  rose  and  re- 
signed himself  to  wander  on  his  original  course  with 
the  wind,  but  as  he  started  he  placed  his  hand  once 
more  against  the  cross,  and  it  was  then  that  he  saw 
her. 

For  he  had  simply  gone  past  her,  and  the  yelling 
of  the  storm  had  cut  off  the  sound  of  her  voice. 
Now  he  saw  her  lying,  a  spot  of  bright  color  on 
the  snow.  He  read  the  story  at  a  glance.  As  she 
passed  this  steep-sided  hill  the  loosely  piled  snow 
had  slid  down  and  carried  with  it  the  dead  trunk 
of  a  fallen  tree. 

Pierre  came  from  behind  and  stood  over  her  un- 
noticed. He  saw  that  the  oncoming  tree,  by  a 
strange  chance,  had  knocked  down  the  girl  and 
pinned  her  legs  to  the  ground.  His  strength  and 


62  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

the  strength  of  a  dozen  men  would  not  be  sufficient 
to  release  her.  This  he  saw  at  the  first  glance,  and 
saw  the  bright  gold  of  her  hair  against  the  snow. 
Then  he  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BELIEF 

THE  girl  tossed  up  her  arms  in  a  silent  ecstasy, 
and  Pierre  caught  the  small  cold  hands  and  saw  that 
she  was  only  a  child  of  twelve  or  fourteen,  lovely 
as  only  a  child  can  be,  and  still  more  beautiful  with 
the  wild  storm  sweeping  over  her  and  the  waste  of 
snow  around  them. 

He  crouched  lower  still,  and  when  he  did  so  the 
strength  of  the  wind  against  his  face  decreased  won- 
derfully, for  the  sharp  angle  of  the  hill's  declivity 
protected  them.  Seeing  him  kneel  there,  helpless 
with  wonder,  she  cried  out  with  a  little  wail :  "Help 
me — the  tree — help  me !"  And,  bursting  into  a  pas- 
sion of  sobbing,  she  tugged  her  hands  from  his  and 
covered  her  face. 

Pierre  placed  his  shoulder  under  the  trunk  and 
lifted  till  the  muscles  of  his  back  snapped  and 
cracked.  He  could  not  budge  the  weight;  he  could 
not  even  send  a  tremor  through  the  mass  of  wood; 
He  dropped  back  beside  her  with  a  groan.  He  felt 
her  eyes  upon  him;  she  had  ceased  her  sobs,  and 
looked  steadily,  gravely,  into  his  face. 

It  would  have  been  easy  for  him  to  meet  that  look 
on  the  morning  of  this  day,  but  after  that  night's 

63 


64          RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

work  in  Morgantown  he  had  to  brace  his  nerve 
mightily  to  withstand  it. 

She  said:  "You  can't  budge  the  tree?" 

"Yes — in  a  minute;  I  will  try  again." 

"You'll  only  hurt  yourself  for  nothing.  I  saw 
how  you  strained  at  it." 

The  greatest  miracle  he  had  ever  seen  was  her 
calm.  Her  eyes  were  wide  and  sorrowful  indeed, 
but  she  was  almost  smiling  up  to  him. 

After  a  while  he  was  able  to  say,  in  a  faint,  small 
voice:  "Are  you  very  cold?" 

She  answered:  "I'm  not  afraid.  But  if  you  stay 
longer  with  me,  you  may  freeze.  The  snow  and 
even  the  tree  help  to  keep  me  almost  warm ;  but  you 
will  freeze.  Go  for  help;  hurry,  and  if  you  can, 
send  it  back  to  me." 

He  thought  of  the  long  miles  back  to  Morgan- 
town;  no  human  being  could  walk  that  distance 
against  this  wind;  not  even  a  strong  horse  could 
make  its  way  through  the  storm.  If  he  went  on  with 
the  wind,  how  long  would  it  be  before  he  reached  a 
house  ?  Before  him,  over  range  after  range  of  hills, 
he  saw  no  single  sign  of  a  building.  If  he  reached 
some  such  place  it  would  be  the  same  story  as  the 
trip  to  Morgantown;  men  simply  could  not  beat  a 
way  against  that  wind. 

Then  a  cold  hand  touched  his,  and  he  looked  up 
to  find  her  eyes  grave  and  wide  once  more,  and  her 
lips  half  smiling,  as  if  she  strove  to  deceive  him. 

"There's  no  chance  of  bringing  help?" 

He  merely  stared  hungrily  at  her,  and  the  love- 
liest thing  he  had  ever  seen  was  the  play  of  golden 


BELIEF  65 

hair  beside  her  cheek.  Her  smile  went  out.  She 
withdrew  her  hand,  but  she  repeated: 

"I'm  not  afraid.  I'll  simply  grow  numb  and  then 
fall  asleep.  But  you  go  on  a'n-d  save  yourself." 

Seeing  him  shake  his  head,  she  caught  his  hands 
again,  and  so  strongly  that  the  chill  of  her  touch 
filled  his  veins  with  an  icy  fire. 

"I'll  be  unhappy.  You'll  make  me  so  unhappy 
if  you  stay.  Please  go." 

He  raised  the  small,  white  hand  and  pressed  it 
to  his  lips. 

She  said:  "You  are  crying!" 

"No,  no!" 

"There!  I  see  the  tears  shining  on  my  hand. 
What  is  your  name?" 

"Pierre." 

"Pierre?  I  like  that  name.  Pierre,  to  make  me 
happy,  will  you  go?  Your  face  is  all  white  and 
touched  with  a  shadow  of  blue.  It  is  the  cold.  Oh, 
won't  you  go?"  Then  she  pleaded,  finding  him  ob- 
durate: "If  you  won't  go  for  me,  then  go  for  your 
father." 

He  raised  his  head  with  a  sudden  laughter,  and, 
raising  it,  the  wind  beat  into  his  face  fiercely  and 
the  particles  of  snow  whipped  his  skin. 

"Dear  Pierre,  then  for  your  mother?" 

He  bowed  his  head. 

"Not  for  all  the  people  who  love  you  and  wait 
for  you  now  by  some  warm  fire — some  cozy  fire, 
all  yellow  and  bright?" 

He  took  her  hands  and  with  them  covered  his 
eyes. 


66          RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"Listen:  I  have  no  father;  I  have  no  mother." 
"Pierre!     Oh,  Pierre,  I'm  sorry  I" 
"And  for  the  rest  of  'em,  I've  killed  a  man.    The 
whole  world  hates  me;  the  whole  world's  hunting 


me." 


The  small  hands  tugged  away.  He  dared  not 
raise  his  bowed  and  miserable  head  for  fear  of  her 
eyes.  And  then  the  hands  came  back  to  him  and 
touched  his  face. 

She  was  saying  tremulously:  "Then  he  deserved 
to  be  killed.  There  must  be  men  like  that — almost. 
And  I — like  you  still,  Pierre." 

"Really?"' 

"I  almost  think  I  like  you  more — because  you 
could  kill  a  man — and  then  stay  here  for  me." 

"If  you  were  a  grown-up  girl,  do  you  know  what 
I'd  say?" 

"Please  tell  me." 

"That  I  could  love  you." 

"Pierre—" 

"Yes." 

"My  name  is  Mary  Brown." 

He  repeated  several  times:  "Mary." 

"And  if  I  were  a  grown-up  girl,  do  you  know 
what  I  would  answer?" 

"I  don't  dare  guess  it." 

"That  I  could  love  you,  Pierre,  if  you  were  a 
grown-up  man." 

"But  I  am." 

"Not  a  really  one." 

And  they  both  broke  into  laughter — happy  laugh- 
ter that  died  out  before  a  sound  of  rushing  and  of 


BELIEF  67 

thunder,  as  a  mass  slid  swiftly  past  them,  snow  and 
mud  and  sand  and  rubble.  The  wind  fell  away  from 
them,  and  when  Pierre  looked  up  he  saw  that  a  great 
mass  pf  tumbled  rock  and  soil  loomed  above  them. 

The  landslide  had  not  touched  them,  by  some 
miracle,  but  in  a  moment  more  it  might  shake  loose 
again,  and  all  that  mass  of  ton  upon  ton  of  stone 
and  loam  would  overwhelm  them.  The  whole  mass 
quaked  and  trembled  and  trembled,  and  the  very 
hillside  shuddered  beneath  them. 

She  looked  up  and  saw  the  coming  ruin;  but  her 
cry  was  for  him,  not  herself. 

"Run,  Pierre — you  can  save  yourself." 

With  that  terror  threatening  him  from  above, 
he  rose  and  started  to  run  down  the  hill.  A  moan 
of  woe  followed  him,  and  he  stopped  and  turned 
back,  and  fought  his  way  through  the  wind  until  he 
was  beside  her  once  more. 

She  was  wringing  the  white,  cold  hands  and 
weeping: 

"Pierre — I  couldn't  help  it — but  when  you  left 
me  the  whole  world  went  out,  and  my  heart  broke. 
I  couldn't  help  calling  out  for  you;  but  now  I'm 
strong  again,  and  I  won't  have  you  stay.  The  whole 
mountain  is  shaking  and  falling  toward  us.  Go 
now,  Pierre,  and  I'll  never  make  a  sound  to  bring 
you  back." 

He  said :  "Hush !  I've  something  here  which  will 
keep  us  both  safe.  Look !" 

He  tore  from  the  chain  which  held  it  at  his  throat 
the  little  metal  cross,  and  held  it  high  overhead, 


68  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

glimmering  in  the  pallid  light.  She  forgot  her  fear 
in  wonder. 

"I  gambled  with  only  one  coin  to  lose,  and  I  came 
out  to-night  with  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  dollars 
because  I  had  the  cross.  It  is  a  charm  against  all 
danger  and  against  all  bad  fortune.  It  has  never 
failed  me." 

Over  them  the  piled  mass  slid  closer.  The  fore- 
head of  Pierre  gleamed  with  sweat,  but  a  strong 
purpose  made  him  talk  on.  At  least  he  could  take 
all  the  foreboding  of  death  from  the  child,  and  when 
the  end  came  it  would  be  swift  and  wipe  them  both 
out  at  one  stroke.  She  clung  to  him,  eager  to  be- 
lieve. 

"I've  closed  my  eyes  so  that  I  can  believe." 

"It  has  never  failed  me.  It  saved  me  once  when 
I  fought  a  big  bobcat  with  only  a  knife.  It  saved 
me  again  when  I  fought  two  men.  Both  of  them 
were  famous  fighters,  but  neither  of  them  had  the 
cross.  One  of  them  I  crippled  and  the  other  died. 
You  see,  the  power  of  the  cross  is  as  great  as  that. 
Do  you  doubt  it  now,  Mary?" 

"Do  you  believe  in  it  so  much — really — Pierre?" 

Each  time  there  was  a  little  lowering  of  her  voice, 
a  little  pause  and  caress  in  the  tone  as  she  uttered 
his  name,  and  nothing  in  all  his  life  had  stirred  Red 
Pierre  so  deeply  with  happiness  and  sorrow. 

"Do  you  believe,  Pierre?"  she  repeated. 

He  looked  up  and  saw  the  shuddering  mass  of 
the  landslide  creeping  upon  them  inch  by  inch.  In 
another  moment  it  would  loose  itself  with  a  rush 
and  cover  them. 


BELIEF  69 

"I  believe,"  he  said. 

"If  you  should  live,  and  I  should  die — " 

"I  would  throw  the  cross  away." 

"No,  you  would  keep  it;  and  every  time  it  touched 
cold  against  your  breast  you  would  think  of  me, 
Pierre,  would  you  not?" 

"When  you  reach  out  to  me  like  that,  you  sort 
of  take  my  heart  between  your  hands." 

"And  when  you  look  at  me  like  that  I  feel  grown- 
up and  sad  and  happy  both  together.  But,  listen, 
Pierre,  I  know  why  I  cannot  die  now.  God  means 
us  to  be  so  happy  together,  doesn't  He?  Because 
after  we've  been  together  on  such  a  night,  how  can 
we  ever  be  apart  again?" 

The  mass  of  the  landslide  toppled  right  above 
them.  She  did  not  seem  to  see. 

"Of  course  we  never  can  be." 

"But  we'll  be  like  a  brother  and  sister  and  some- 
thing more." 

"And  something  more,  Mary." 

She  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed.  The  laugh- 
ter hurt  him  more  than  her  sobbing,  for  as  she  lay 
wrapped  in  her  thick  furs,  even  the  pale,  cold  light 
could  not  make  her  pallid. 

The  blowing  hair  was  as  warm  as  yellow  sunshine 
to  the  heart  of  Pierre  le  Rouge,  and  the  color  of  her 
cheeks  was  as  dear  to  him  as  the  early  flowers  of 
spring  in  the  northland. 

"I'm  so  happy,  Pierre.     I  was  never  so  happy." 

And  he  said,  with  his  eyes  on  the  approaching 
ruin: 


70          RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"It  was  your  singing  that  brought  me  to  you. 
Will  you  sing  again?" 

"I  sang  because  I  knew  that  when  I  sang  the 
sound  would  carry  farther  through  the  wind  than 
if  I  called  for  help.  What  shall  I  sing  for  you  now, 
Pierre?" 

"What  you  sang  when  I  came  to  you." 

And  the  light,  sweet  voice  rose  easily  through 
the  sweep  of  the  wind.  She  smiled  as  she  sang,  and 
the  smile  and  music  were  all  for  Pierre,  he  knew, 
and  all  the  pathos  of  the  climax  was  for  him;  but 
through  the  last  stanza  of  the  song  the  rumble  of  the 
approaching  death  grew  louder,  and  as  she  ended 
he  threw  himself  beside  her  and  gathered  her  into 
protecting  arms. 

She  cried:  "Pierre!    What  is  it?" 

"I  must  keep  you  warm;  the  snow  will  eat  away 
your  strength." 

"No ;  it's  more  than  that.  Tell  me,  Pierre  I  You 
don't  trust  the  power  of  the  cross?" 

"Are  you  afraid?" 

"Oh,  no;  I'm  not  afraid,  Pierre." 

"If  one  life  would  be  enough,  I'd  give  mine  a  thou- 
sand times.  Mary,  we  are  to  die." 

A  small  arm  slipped  around  his  neck — a  cold  hand 
pressed  against  his  cheek. 

"Pierre." 

"Yes." 

The  thunder  broke  above  them  with  a  mighty 
roaring. 

"You  have  no  fear." 

"Mary,  if  I  had  died  alone  I  would  have  dropped 


BELIEF  71 

down  to  hell  under  my  sins;  but,  with  your  arm 
around  me,  you'll  take  me  with  you.  Hold  me 
close." 

"With  all  my  heart,  Pierre.  See — Fm  not  afraid. 
It  is  like  going  to  sleep.  What  wonderful  dreams 
we'll  have!" 

And  then  the  black  mass  of  the  landslide  swept 
upon  them. 


CHAPTER  IX 

RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

DOWN  all  the  length  of  the  mountain-desert  and 
across  its  width  of  rocks  and  mountains  and  valleys 
and  stern  plateaus  there  is  a  saying:  "You  can  tell 
a  man  by  the  horse  he  rides."  For  most  other  im- 
portant things  are  apt  to  go  by  opposites,  which  is 
the  usual  way  in  which  a  man  selects  his  wife.  With 
dogs,  for  instance — a  quiet  man  is  apt  to  want  an 
active  dog,  and  a  tractable  fellow  may  keep  the  most 
vicious  of  wolf-dogs. 

But  when  it  comes  to  a  horse,  a  man's  heart 
speaks  for  itself,  and  if  he  has  sufficient  knowledge 
of  the  king  of  beasts  he  will  choose  a  sympathetic 
mount.  A  dainty  woman  loves  a  neat-stepping  sad- 
dle-horse; a  philosopher  likes  a  nodding,  stumble- 
footed  nag  which  will  jog  all  day  long  and  care  not 
a  whit  whether  it  goes  up  dale  or  down. 

To  know  the  six  wild  riders  who  galloped  over 
the  white  reaches  of  the  mountain-desert  this  night, 
certainly  their  horses  should  be  studied  first  and 
the  men  secondly,  for  the  one  explained  the  other. 

They  came  in  a  racing  triangle.  Even  the  storm 
at  its  height  could  not  daunt  such  furious  riders.  At 
the  point  of  the  triangle  thundered  a  mighty  black 
stallion,  his  muzzle  and  his  broad  chest  flecked  with 


RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES          73 

white  foam,  for  he  stretched  his  head  out  and 
champed  at  the  bit  with  ears  laid  flat  back,  as 
though  even  that  furious  pace  gave  him  no  oppor- 
tunity to  use  fully  his  strength. 

He  was  no  cleanly  cut  beauty,  but  an  ugly  headed 
monster  with  a  savagely  hooked  Roman  nose  and 
small,  keen  eyes,  always  red  at  the  corners.  A 
medieval  baron  in  full  panoply  of  plate  armor 
would  have  chosen  such  a  charger  among  ten  thou- 
sand steeds,  yet  the  black  stallion  needed  all  his 
strength  to  uphold  the  unarmored  giant  who  be- 
strode him,  a  savage  figure. 

When  the  broad  brim  of  his  hat  flapped  up  against 
the  wind  the  moonshine  caught  at  shaggy  brows,  a 
cruelly  arched  nose,  thin,  straight  lips,  and  a  for- 
ward-thrusting jaw.  It  seemed  as  if  nature  had 
hewn  him  roughly  and  designed  him  for  a  primitive 
age  where  he  could  fight  his  way  with  hands  and 
teeth. 

This  was  Jim  Boone.  To  his  right  and  a  little 
behind  him  galloped  a  riderless  horse,  a  beautiful 
young  animal  continually  tossing  its  head  and  look- 
ing as  if  for  guidance  at  the  big  stallion. 

To  the  left  strode  a  handsome  bay  with  pricking 
ears.  A  mound  interfered  with  his  course,  and  he 
cleared  it  in  magnificent  style  that  would  have 
brought  a  cheer  from  the  lips  of  any  English  lover 
of  the  chase. 

Straight  in  the  saddle  sat  Dick  Wilbur,  and  he 

*  raised  his  face  a  little  to  the  wind,  smiling  faintly 

as  if  he  rejoiced  in  its  fine  strength,  as  handsome  as 

the  horse  he  rode,  as  cleanly  cut,  as  finely  bred.    The 


74          RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

moon  shone  a  little  brighter  on  him  than  on  any 
others  of  the  six  stark  riders. 

Bud  Mansie  'behind,  for  instance,  kept  his  head 
slightly  to  one  side  and  cursed  beneath  his  breath  at 
the  storm  and  set  his  teeth  at  the  wind.  His  horse, 
delicately  formed,  with  long,  slender  legs,  could  not 
have  endured  that  charge  against  the  storm  save 
that  it  constantly  edged  behind  the  leaders  and  let 
them  break  the  wind.  It  carried  less  weight  than 
any  other  mount  of  the  six,  and  its  strength  was  cun- 
ningly nursed  by  the  rider  so  that  it  kept  its  place, 
and  at  the  finish  it  would  be  as  strong  as  any  and 
swifter,  perhaps,  for  a  sudden,  short  effort,  just  as 
Bud  Mansie  might  be  numbed  through  all  his  nerv- 
ous, slender  body,  but  never  too  numb  for  swift  and 
deadly  action. 

On  the  opposite  wing  of  the  flying  wedge  galloped 
a  dust-colored  gray,  ragged  of  mane  and  tail,  and 
vindictive  of  eye,  like  its  down-headed  rider,  who 
shifted  his  glance  rapidly  from  side  to  side  and 
watched  the  ground  closely  before  his  horse  as  if 
he  were  perpetually  prepared  for  danger. 

He  distrusted  the  very  ground  over  which  his 
mount  strode.  For  all  this  he  seemed  the  least  for- 
midable of  all  the  riders.  To  see  him  pass  none 
could  have  suspected  that  this  was  Black  Morgan 
Gandil. 

Last  of  the  crew  came  two  men  almost  as  large 
as  Jim  Boone  himself,  on  strong  steady-striding 
horses.  They  came  last  in  this  crew,  but  among 
a  thousand  other  long-riders  they  would  have  ridden 
first,  either  red-faced,  good-humored,  loud-voiced 


RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES          75 

Garry  Patterson,  or  Phil  Branch,  stout-handed,  blunt 
of  jaw,  who  handled  men  as  he  had  once  hammered 
red  iron  at  the  forge. 

Each  of  them  should  have  ridden  alone  in  order 
to  be  properly  appreciated.  To  see  them  together 
was  like  watching  a  flock  of  eagles  every  one  of 
which  should  have  been  a  solitary  lord  of  the  air. 
But  after  scanning  that  lordly  train  which  followed, 
the  more  terrible  seemed  the  rider  of  the  great  black 
horse. 

Yet  the  king  was  sad,  and  the  reason  for  his  sad- 
ness was  the  riderless  horse  which  galloped  so  freely 
beside  him.     His  son  had  ridden  that  horse  when  * 
they  set  out,  and  all  the  way  down  to  the  railroad 
Handsome  Hal  Boone  had  kept  his  mount  prancing 
and  curveting  and  had  ridden  around  and  around   . 
tall  Dick  Wilbur,  playing  pranks,  and  had  teased 
his  father's  black  until  the  big  stallion  lashed  out 
wildly  with  furious  heels. 

It  was  the  memory  of  this  that  kept  the  grave 
shadow  of  a  smile  on  the  father's  lips  for  all  the 
sternness  of  his  eyes.  He  never  turned  his  head, 
for,  looking  straight  forward,  he  could  conjure  up 
the  laughing  vision;  but  when  he  glanced  to  the 
empty  saddle  he  heard  once  more  the  last  unlucky 
shot  fired  from  the  train  as  they  raced  off  with  their 
booty,  and  saw  Hal  reel  in  his  saddle  and  pitch  for- 
ward; and  how  he  had  tried  to  check  his  horse  and 
turn  back ;  and  how  big  Dick  Wilbur,  and  Patterson, 
and  mighty-handed  Phil  Branch  had  forced  him  to 
go  on  and  leave  that  form  lying  motionless  on  the 
snow. 


76  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

At  that  he  groaned,  and  spurred  the  black,  and 
so  the  cavalcade  rushed  faster  and  faster  through 
the  night. 

They  came  over  a  sharp  ridge  and  veered  to  the 
side  just  in  time,  for  all  the  further  slope  was  a  mass 
of  treacherous  sand  and  rubble  and  raw  rocks  and 
mud,  where  a  landslide  had  stripped  the  hill  to  the 
stone. 

As  they  veered  about  the  ruin  and  thundered  on 
down  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  Jim  Boone  threw  up 
his  hand  for  a  signal  and  brought  his  stallion  to  a 
halt  on  back-braced,  sliding  legs. 

For  a  metallic  glitter  had  caught  his  eye,  and  then 
he  saw,  half  covered  by  the  pebbles  and  dirt,  the 
figure  of  a  man.  He  must  have  been  struck  by  the 
landslide  and  not  overwhelmed  by  it,  but  rather 
carried  before  it  like  a  stick  in  a  rush  of  water.  At 
the  outermost  edge  of  the  wave  he  lay  with  the 
rocks  and  dirt  washed  over  him.  Boone  swung  from 
the  saddle  and  lifted  Pierre  le  Rouge. 

The  gleam  of  metal  was  the  cross  which  his  fingers 
still  gripped.  Boone  examined  it  with  a  somewhat 
superstitious  caution,  took  it  from  the  nerveless  fin- 
gers, and  slipped  it  into  a  pocket  of  Pierre's  shirt. 
A  small  cut  on  the  boy's  forehead  showed  where  the 
stone  struck  which  knocked  him  senseless,  but  the 
cut  still  bled — a  small  trickle — Pierre  lived.  He 
even  stirred  and  groaned  and  opened  his  eyes,  large 
and  deeply  blue. 

It  was  only  an  instant  before  they  closed,  but 
Boone  had  seen.  He  turned  with  the  figure  lifted 
easily  in  his  arms  as  if  Pierre  had  been  a  child  fallen 


RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES  77 

asleep  by  the  hearth  and  now  about  to  be  carried 
off  to  bed. 

And  the  outlaw  said:  "I've  lost  my  boy  to-night. 
This  here  one  was  given  me  by  the  will  of — God." 

Black  Morgan  Gandil  reined  his  horse  close  by, 
leaned  to  peer  down,  and  the  shadow  of  his  hat  fell 
across  the  face  of  Pierre. 

"There's  no  good  comes  of  savin'  shipwrecked 
men.  Leave  him  where  you  found  him,  Jim.  That's 
my  advice.  Sidestep  a  red-headed  man.  That's 
what  I  say." 

The  quick-stepping  horse  of  Bud  Mansie  came 
near,  and  the  rider  wiped  his  blue,  stiff  lips,  and 
spoke  from  the  side  of  his  mouth,  a  prison  habit  of 
the  line  that  moves  in  the  lock-step :  "Take  it  from 
me,  Jim,  there  ain't  any  place  in  our  crew  for  a  man 
you've  picked  up  without  knowing  him  beforehand. 
Let  him  lay,  I  say." 

But  big  Dick  Wilbur  was  already  leading  up  the 
horse  of  Hal  Boone,  and  into  the  saddle  Jim  Boone 
swung  the  inert  body  of  Pierre.  The  argument  was 
settled,  for  every  man  of  them  knew  that  nothing 
could  turn  Boone  back  from  a  thing  once  begun. 
Yet  there  were  muttered  comments  that  drew  Black 
Morgan  Gandil  and  Bud  Mansie  together. 

And  Gandil,  from  the  South  Seas,  growled  with 
averted  eyes: 

"This  is  the  most  fool  stunt  the  chief  has  ever 
pulled." 

"Right,  pal,"  answered  Mansie.  "You  take  a 
snake  in  out  of  the  cold,  and  it  bites  you  when  it 
comes  to  in  the  warmth;  but  the  chief  has  started, 


78  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

and  there  ain't  nothing  that'll  make  him  stop,  except 
maybe  God  or  McGurk." 

And  Black  Gandil  answered  with  his  evil,  sudden 
grin:  "Maybe  McGurk,  but  not  God." 

They  started  on  again  with  Garry  Patterson  and 
Dick  Wilbur  riding  close  on  either  side  of  Pierre, 
supporting  his  limp  body.  It  delayed  the  whole 
gang,  for  they  could  not  go  on  faster  than  a  jog- 
trot. The  wind,  however,  was  falling  off  in  vio- 
lence. Its  shrill  whistling  ceased,  at  length,  and 
they  went  on,  accompanied  only  by  the  harsh  crunch- 
ing of  the  snow  underfoot. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  GUARD 

CONSCIOUSNESS  returned  to  Pierre  like  the  light 
of  the  rising  moon  which  breaks  dimly  through  the 
window  and  makes  all  the  objects  in  a  room  gro- 
tesquely large  and  blackly  shadowed.  Many  a  time 
his  eyes  opened,  and  he  saw  nothing,  but  when  he 
did  see  and  hear  it  was  by  vague  glimpses. 

He  heard  the  crying  crunch  of  the  snow  under- 
foot; he  heard  the  panting  and  snorting  of  the 
horses;  he  felt  the  swing  and  jolt  of  the  saddle  be- 
neath him ;  he  saw  the  grim  faces  of  the  long-riders, 
and  he  said:  "The  law  has  taken  me." 

Thereafter  he  let  his  will  lapse,  and  surrendered 
to  the  sleepy  numbness  which  assailed  his  brain  in 
waves.  He  was  riding  without  support  by  this  time, 
but  it  was  an  automatic  effort.  There  was  no  more 
real  life  in  him  than  in  a  dummy  figure.  It  was  not 
the  effect  of  the  blow.  It  was  rather  the  long  ex- 
posure and  the  over-exertion  of  nerves  and  mind 
and  body  during  the  evening  and  night.  He  had 
simply  collapsed  beneath  the  strain. 

But  an  old  army  man  has  said:  "Give  me  a  soldier 
of  eighteen  or  twenty.  In  a  single  day  he  may  not 
march  quite  so  far  as  a  more  mature  man  or  carry 
quite  so  much  weight.  He  will  go  to  sleep  each 

79 


8o          RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

night  dead  to  the  world.  But  in  the  morning  he 
awakens  a  new  man.  He  is  like  a  slate  from  which 
all  the  writing  has  been  erased.  He  is  ready  for  a 
new  day  and  a  new  world.  Thirty  days  of  cam- 
paigning leaves  him  as  strong  and  fresh  as  ever. 

"Thirty  days  of  campaigning  leaves  the  old  sol- 
dier a  wreck.  Why?  Because  as  a  man  grows  older 
he  loses  the  ability  to  sleep  soundly.  He  carries  the 
nervous  strain  of  one  day  over  to  the  next.  Life  is 
a  serious  problem  to  a  man  over  thirty.  To  a  man 
under  thirty  it  is  simply  a  game.  For  my  part,  give 
me  men  who  can  play  at  war." 

So  it  was  with  Pierre  le  Rouge.  He  woke  with  a 
faint  heaviness  of  head,  and  stretched  himself. 
There  were  many  sore  places,  but  nothing  more.  He 
looked  up,  and  the  slant  winter  sun  cut  across  his 
face  and  made  a  patch  of  bright  yellow  on  the  wall 
beside  him. 

Next  he  heard  a  faint  humming,  and,  turning  his 
head,  saw  a  boy  of  fourteen  or  perhaps  a  little  more, 
busily  cleaning  a  rifle  in  a  way  that  betokened  the 
rnost  expert  knowledge  of  the  weapon.  Pierre  him- 
self knew  rifles  as  a  preacher  knows  his  Bible,  and  as 
he  lay  half  awake  and  half  asleep  he  smiled  with  en- 
joyment to  see  the  deft  fingers  move  here  and  there, 
wiping  away  the  oil.  A  green  hand  will  spend  half 
a  day  cleaning  a  gun,  and  then  do  the  work  imper- 
fectly; an  expert  does  the  job  efficiently  in  ten  min- 
utes. This  was  an  expert. 

Undoubtedly  this  was  a  true  son  of  the  mountain 
desert.  He  wore  his  old  slouch  hat  even  in  the 
house,  and  his  skin  was  that  olive  brown  which  comes 


THE  GUARD  81 

from  many  years  of  exposure  to  the  wind  and  sun. 
At  the  same  time  there  was  a  peculiar  fineness  about 
the  boy.  His  feet  were  astonishingly  small  and  the 
hands  thin  and  slender  for  all  their  supple  strength. 
And  his  neck  was  not  bony,  as  it  is  in  most  youths 
at  this  gawky  age,  but  smoothly  rounded. 

Men  grow  big  of  bone  and  sparse  of  flesh  in  the 
mountain  desert.  It  was  the  more  surprising  to 
Pierre  to  see  this  young  fellow  with  the  marvelously 
delicate-cut  features.  By  some  freak  of  nature  here 
was  a  place  where  the  breed  ran  to  high  blood. 

The  cleaning  completed,  the  boy  tossed  the  butt 
of  the  gun  to  his  shoulder  and  squinted  down  the  bar- 
rel. Then  he  loaded  the  magazine,  weighted  the 
gun  deftly  at  the  balance,  and  dropped  the  rifle 
across  his  knees. 

"Morning,"  said  Pierre  le  Rouge  cheerily,  and 
swung  off  the  bunk  to  the  floor.  "How  old's  the 
gun?" 

The  boy,  without  the  slightest  show  of  excitement, 
snapped  the  butt  to  his  shoulder  and  drew  a  bead 
on  Pierre's  breast. 

"Sit  down  before  you  get  all  heated  up,"  said  a 
musical  voice.  "There's  nobody  waiting  for  you 
on  horseback." 

And  Pierre  sat  down,  partly  because  Western 
men  never  argue  a  point  when  that  little  black  hole 
is  staring  them  in  the  face,  partly  because  he  remem- 
bered with  a  rush  that  the  last  time  he  had  fully 
possessed  his  consciousness  he  had  been  lying  in  the 
snow  with  the  cross  gripped  hard  and  the  toppling 
mass  of  the  landslide  above  him.  All  that  had  hap- 


82  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

pencd  between  was  blotted  from  his  memory.  He 
fumbled  at  his  throat.  The  cross  was  not  there. 
He  touched  his  pockets. 

"Ease  your  hands  away  from  your  hip,"  said  the 
cold  voice  of  the  boy,  who  had  dropped  his  gun  to 
the  ready  with  a  significant  finger  curled  around  the 
trigger,  uor  I'll  drill  you  clean.7* 

Pierre  obediently  raised  his  hands  to  the  level  of 
his  shoulders.  The  boy  sneered,  and  a  light  of  in- 
finite scorn  blazed  into  those  great  black  eyes. 

"This  isn't  a  hold-up,"  he  explained.  "Put  'em 
down  again,  but  watch  yourself." 

The  sneer  varied  to  a  contemptuous  smile. 

"I  guess  you're  tame,  all  right." 

"Point  that  gun  another  way,  will  you,  son?" 

The  boy  started  and  flushed  a  little. 

"Don't  call  me  son." 

"Is  this  a  lockup — a  jail?" 

"This?" 

"What  is  it,  then?  The  last  I  remember  I  was 
lying  in  the  snow  with — " 

"I  wish  to  God  you'd  been  let  there,"  said  the  boy 
bitterly. 

But  Pierre,  overwhelmed  with  the  endeavor  to 
recollect,  rushed  on  with  his  questions  and  paid  no 
heed  to  the  tone. 

"I  had  a  cross  in  my  hand — " 

The  scorn  of  the  boy  grew  to  mighty  proportions. 

"It's  there  in  the  breast-pocket  of  your  shirt." 

Pierre  drew  out  the  little  cross,  and  the  touch  of 
it  against  his  palm  restored  whatever  of  his  strength 
was  lacking.  Very  carefully  he  attached  it  to  the 


THE  GUARD  83 

chain  about  his  throat.  Then  he  looked  up  to  the 
contempt  of  the  boy,  and  as  he  did  so  another  mem- 
ory burst  on  him  and  brought  him  to  his  feet.  The 
gun  went  to  the  boy's  shoulders  at  the  same  time. 

"When  I  was  found — was  any  one  else  with  me?" 

"Nope." 

"What  happened?" 

"Must  have  been  buried  in  the  landslide.  Half  a 
hill  caved  in,  and  the  dirt  rolled  you  down  to  the 
bottom.  Plain  luck,  that's  all,  that  kept  you  from 
going  out." 

"Luck?"  said  Pierre  and  he  laid  his  hand  against 
his  breast  where  he  could  feel  the  outline  of  the 
cross.  "Yes,  I  suppose  it  was  luck.  And  she — " 

He  sat  down  slowly  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  A  new  tone  came  in  the  voice  of  the  boy. 
His  tone  was  thrillingly  gentle  as  he  asked :  "Was  a 
woman  with  you?"  But  Pierre  heard  only  the  tone 
and  not  the  words.  His  face  was  gray  when  he 
looked  up  again,  and  his  voice  hard. 

"Tell  me  as  briefly  as  you  can  how  I  come  here, 
ind  who  picked  me  up." 

"My  father  and  his  men.  They  passed  you  lying 
on  the  snow.  They  brought  you  home." 

"Who  is  your  father?" 

The  boy  stiffened  and  his  color  rose  in  pride  and 
defiance. 

"My  father  is  Jim  Boone." 

Instinctively,  while  he  stared,  the  right  hand  of 
Pierre  le  Rouge  crept  toward  his  hip. 

"Keep  your  hand  steady/1  said  the  boy.    UI  got  a 


84  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

nervous  trigger-finger.  Yeh,  dad  is  pretty  well 
known." 

"You're  his  son?" 

"I'm  Jack  Boone." 

"But  I've  heard — tell  me,  do  you  look  like  your 
father?" 

Jack  Boone  smiled,  strove  to  frown,  and  then 
burst  into  surprisingly  musical  laughter.  It  came 
in  bursts  and  ripples,  and  seemed  that  it  would  never 
end.  His  merriment  ended  slowly,  for  he  saw  the 
eyes  of  Pierre  stare  into  blank  distance,  and  knew 
that  the  man  with  the  red  hair  was  thinking  of  the 
woman  whom  the  landslide  had  buried.  Something 
that  was  partially  sympathy  and  partially  curiosity 
altered  Jack's  expression. 

After  all,  it  was  very  difficult  to  remain  hostile  in 
front  of  the  steady  blue  eyes  of  this  stranger. 

Pierre  said  gravely:  "Why  am  I  under  guard?" 

Jack  was  instantly  aflame  with  the  old  anger. 

"Not  because  I  want  you  here." 

"Who  does?" 

"Dad." 

"Put  away  your  pop-gun  and  talk  sense.  I  won't 
try  to  get  away  until  Jim  Boone  comes.  I  only  fight 
men." 

Even  the  anger  and  grief  of  the  boy  could  not 
keep  him  from  smiling  in  his  peculiarly  winning 
way. 

"Just  the  same  I'll  keep  the  shooting-iron  handy. 
Sit  still.  A  gun  don't  keep  me  from  talking  sense, 
does  it?  You're  here  to  take  Hal's  place.  Hal!" 

The  little  wail  told  a  thousand  things,  and  Pierre, 


THE  GUARD  85 

shocked  out  of  the  thought  of  his  own  troubles, 
waited. 

"My  brother,  Hal;  he's  dead;  he  died  last  night, 
and  on  the  way  back  dad  found  you  and  brought 
you  to  take  Hal's  place.  Hal's  place!" 

The  accent  showed  how  impossible  it  was  that 
Hal's  place  could  be  taken  by  any  mortal  man. 

"I  got  orders  to  keep  you  here,  but  if  I  was  to 
do  what  I'd  like  to  do,  I'd  give  you  the  best  horse 
on  the  place  and  tell  you  to  clear  out.  That's  me !" 

"Then  do  it." 

"And  face  dad  afterward?" 

"Tell  him  I  overpowered  you.  That  would  be 
easy;  you  a  slip  of  a  boy,  and  me  a  man." 

"Stranger,  it  goes  to  show  you  may  have  heard  of 
Jim  Boone,  but  you  don't  anyways  know  him.  When 
he  orders  a  thing  done  he  wants  it  done,  and  he 
don't  care  how,  and  he  don't  ask  questions  why.  He 
just  raises  hell." 

"He  really  expects  to  keep  me  here?" 

"Expects?     He  will." 

"Going  to  tie  me  up?"  asked  Pierre  ironically. 

"Maybe,"  answered  Jack,  overlooking  the  irony. 
"Maybe  he'll  just  put  you  on  my  shoulders  to 
guard." 

He  moved  the  gun  significantly. 

"And  I  can  do  it." 

"Of  course.  But  he  would  have  to  let  me  go  some 
time." 

"Not  till  you'd  promised  to  stick  by  him.  I  told 
him  that  myself,  but  he  said  that  you're  young  and 
that  he'd  teach  you  to  like  this  life  whether  you 


86  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

wanted  to  or  not.  Me  speaking  personally,  I  agree 
with  Black  Gandil:  This  is  the  worst  fool  thing  that 
dad  has  ever  done.  What  do  we  want  with  you — 
in  Hal's  place!'1 

And  a  suggestion  of  a  sob  came  in  Jack's  voice, 
though  he  set  his  teeth  to  keep  it  back. 

uBut  I've  got  a  thing  to  do  right  away — to-day; 
it  can't  wait. 

"Give  dad  your  word  to  come  back  and  he'll  let 
you  go.  He  says  you're  the  kind  that  will  keep  your 
word.  You  see,  he  found  you  with  a  cross  in  your 
hand." 

And  Jack's  lips  curled  again. 

It  was  all  absurd,  too  impossible  to  be  real.  The 
only  real  things  were  the  body  of  white-handed,  yel- 
low-haired Mary  Brown  under  the  tumbled  rocks 
and  dirt  of  the  landslide,  and  the  body  of  Martin 
Ryder  waiting  to  be  placed  in  that  corner  plot  where 
the  grass  grew  quicker  than  all  other  grass  in  the 
spring  of  the  year. 

However,  having  fallen  among  madmen,  he  must 
use  cunning  to  get  away  before  the  outlaw  and  his 
men  came  back  from  wherever  they  had  gone. 
Otherwise  there  would  be  more  bloodshed,  more 
play  of  guns  and  hum  of  lead. 

"Tell  me  of  Hal,"  he  said,  and  dropped  his  el- 
bows on  his  knees  as  if  he  accepted  his  fate. 

"Don't  know  you  well  enough  to  talk  of  Hal." 

"I'm  sorry."  ' 

The  boy  made  a  little  gesture  of  apology. 

"I  guess  that  was  a  low-down  mean  thing  to  say. 
Sure  I'll  tell  you  about  Hal— if  I  can." 


THE  GUARD  87 

For  his  lips  trembled  at  the  thought  of  the  dead. 

"Tell  me  anything  you  can,"  said  Pierre  gently, 
"because  I've  got  to  try  to  be  like  him,  haven't  I?" 

"You  could  try  till  rattlers  got  tame,  but  it'd  take 
ten  like  you  to  make  one  like  Hal.  He  was  dad's 
own  son — he  was  my  brother." 

The  sob  came  openly  now,  and  the  tears  were  a 
bright  mist  in  the  boy's  eyes. 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Pierre." 

"Pierre?    I  suppose  I  got  to  learn  it" 

"I  suppose  so."  And  he  edged  farther  forward, 
so  that  he  was  sitting  only  on  the  edge  of  the  bunk. 

^Please  do."  And  he  gathered  his  feet  under 
him,  ready  for  a  spring  forward  and  a  grip  at  the 
boy's  threatening  rifle. 

Jack  had  canted  his  head  a  little  to  one  side,  smil- 
ing faintly  for  the  joy  of  the  memory. 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  horse  that  was  gentle  and  yet 
had  never  been  ridden,  or  his  spirit  broke,  Pierre — " 

Here  Pierre  made  his  leap  swift  as  some  bobcat 
of  the  northern  woods;  his  hand  whipped  out  as 
lightning  fast  as  the  striking  paw  of  the  lynx,  and  the 
gun  was  jerked  from  the  hands  of  Jack.  Not  before 
the  boy  clutched  at  it  with  a  cry  of  horror,  but  the 
force  of  the  pull  sent  him  lurching  to  the  floor  and 
broke  his  grip. 

He  was  up  in  an  instant,  however,  and  a  knife 
of  ugly  length  glittered  in  his  hand;  as  he  sprang  at 
Pierre  his  lips  were  as  white  as  the  teeth  over  which 
they  snarled. 

Pierre  tossed  aside  the  rifle  and  met  the  attack 


S8  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

bare-handed.  Deadly  swift  was  the  thrust  of  the 
knife,  but  compared  with  the  motion  of  Pierre  it  was 
as  slow  as  tame  things  are  when  they  are  likened  to 
the  wild. 

He  caught  the  knife-bearing  hand  at  the  wrist 
and  under  his  grip  the  hand  loosened  its  hold  and  the 
steel  tinkled  on  the  floor.  His  other  arm  caught  the 
body  of  Jack  in  a  mighty  vise. 

There  was  a  brief  and  futile  struggle,  and  a  hiss- 
ing of  breath  in  the  silence  till  the  hat  tumbled  from 
the  head  of  Jack  arfd  down  over  the  shoulders 
streamed  a  torrent  of  silken  black  hair. 

Pierre  stepped  back.  This  was  the  meaning, 
then,  of  the  strangely  small  feet  and  hands  and  the 
low  music  of  the  voice.  It  was  the  body  of  a  girl 
that  he  had  held,  and  his  arm  still  tingled  from  the 
finger-tips  to  the  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  XI 

JACK  GROWS  UP 

IT  was  not  fear  nor  shame  that  made  the  eyes  of 
Jacqueline  so  wide  as  she  stared  past  Pierre  toward 
the  door.  He  glanced  across  his  shoulder,  and 
blocking  the  entrance  to  the  room,  literally  filling  the 
doorway,  was  the  bulk  of  Jim  Boone. 

"Seems  as  if  I  was  sort  of  steppin'  in  on  a  little 
family  party,"  he  said.  "I'm  sure  glad  you  two 
got  acquainted  so  quick.  Jack,  how  did  you  and — 
What  the  hell's  your  name,  lad?" 

"He  tricked  me,  dad,  or  he  would  never  have 
got  the  gun  away  from  me.  This — this  Pierre— 
this  beast — he  got  me  to  talk  of  Hal  till  my  eyes 
filled  up  and  I  couldn't  see.  Then  he  stole " 

"The  point,"  said  Jim  Boone  coldly,  "is  that  he 
got  the  gun.  Run  along,  Jack.  You  ain't  so  growed 
up  as  I  was  thinkin'.  Or  hold  on — maybe  you're 
more  grown  up.  Which  is  it?  Are  you  turnin'  into 
a  woman,  Jack?" 

She  whirled  on  Pierre  in  a  white  fury. 

"You  see?  You  see  what  you've  done?  He'll 
never  trust  me  again — never!  Pierre,  I  hate  you. 
I'll  always  hate  you.  And  if  Hal  were  here " 

A  storm  of  sobs  and  tears  cut  her  short,  and  she 

89 


90          RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

disappeared  through  the  door.  Boone  and  Pierre 
stood  regarding  each  other  critically. 

The  boy  spoke  first:  "You're  not  as  big  as  I  ex- 
pected." 

"I'm  plenty  big;  but  you're  older  than  I  thought." 

"Too  old  for  what  you  want  of  me.  The  girl 
told  me  what  that  was." 

"Not  too  old  to  be  made  what  I  want." 

And  his  hands  passed  through  a  significant  gesture 
of  moulding  the  empty  air.  The  boy  met  his  eye 
dauntlessly. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  I've  a  pretty  small 
chance  of  getting  away." 

"Just  about  none,  Pierre.    Come  here." 

Pierre  stepped  closer  and  looked  down  the  hall 
into  another  room.  There,  about  a  table,  sat  the 
five  grimmest  riders  of  the  mountain  desert  that  he 
had  even  seen.  They  were  such  men  as  one  could 
judge  at  a  glance,  and  Pierre  made  that  instinctive 
motion  for  his  six-gun. 

"The.  girl,"  Jim  Boone  was  saying,  "kept  you 
pretty  busy  tryin'  to  make  a  break,  and  if  she  could 
do  anything  maybe  you'd  have  a  pile  of  trouble  with 
one  of  them  guardin'  you.  But  if  I'd  had  a  good 
look  at  you,  lad,  I'd  never  have  let  Jack  take  the  job 
of  guardin'  you." 

"Thanks,"  answered  Pierre  dryly. 

"You  got  reason;  I  can  see  that.  Here's  the 
point,  Pierre.  I  know  young  men  because  I  can  re- 
member pretty  close  what  I  was  at  your  age.  I 
wasn't  any  ladies'  lap  dog,  at  that,  but  time  and 


JACK  GROWS  UP  91 

older  men  molded  me  the  way  I'm  going  to  mold 
you.  Understand?" 

Pierre  was  nerved  for  many  things,  but  the  last 
word  made  him  stir.  It  roused  in  him  a  red-tinged 
desire  to  get  through  the  forest  of  black  beard  at 
the  throat  of  Boone  and  dim  the  glitter  of  those 
keen  eyes.  It  brought  him  also  another  thought. 

Two  great  tasks  lay  before  him:  the  burial  of 
his  father  and  the  avenging  of  him  on  McGurk. 
As  to  the  one,  he  knew  it  would  be  childish  madness 
for  him  to  attempt  to  bury  his  father  in  Morgan- 
town  with  only  his  single  hand  to  hold  back  the  pow- 
ers of  the  law  or  the  friends  of  the  notorious  Diaz 
and  crippled  Hurley. 

And  for  the  other,  it  was  even  more  vain  to 
imagine  that  through  his  own  unaided  power  he 
could  strike  down  a  figure  of  such  almost  legendary 
terror  as  McGurk.  The  bondage  of  the  gang  might 
be  a  terrible  thing  through  the  future,  but  the  pres- 
ent need  blinded  him  to  what  might  come. 

He  said:  "Suppose  I  stop  raising  questions  or 
making  a  fight,  but  give  you  my  hand  and  call  my- 
self a  member " 

"Of  the  family?  Exactly.  If  you  did  that  I'd 
know  it  was  because  you  were  wantin'  something, 
Pierre,  eh?" 

"Two  things." 

"Lad,  I  like  this  way  of  talk.  One — two — you  hit 
quick  like  a  two-gun  man.  Well,  I'm  used  to  paying 
high  for  what  I  get.  What's  up?" 

"The  first " 


92          RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"Wait  Can  I  help  you  out  by  myself,  or  do  you 
need  the  gang?" 

"The  gang." 

"Then  come,  and  I'll  put  it  up  to  them.  You 
first.11 

It  was  equally  courtesy  and  caution,  and  Pierre 
smiled  faintly  as  he  went  first  through  the  door.  He 
stood  in  a  moment  under  the  eyes  of  five  silent  men. 

The  booming  voice  of  Jim  Boone  pronounced: 
"This  is  Pierre.  He'll  be  one  of  us  if  he  can  get  the 
gang  to  do  two  things.  I  ask  you,  will  you  hear  him 
for  me,  and  then  pass  on  whether  or  not  you  try  his 
game?" 

They  nodded.  There  were  no  greetings  to  ac- 
knowledge the  introduction.  They  waited,  eyeing 
the  youth  with  distrust. 

Pierre  eyed  them  in  turn,  and  then  he  spoke 
directly  to  big  Dick  Wilbur. 

"Here's  the  first :  I  want  to  bury  a  man  in  Mor- 
gantown  and  I  need  help  to  do  it." 

Black  Gandil  snarled:  "You  heard  me,  boys; 
blood  to  start  with.  Who's  the  man  you  want  us 
to  put  out?" 

"He's  dead— my  father." 

They  came  up  straight  in  their  chairs  like  trained 
actors  rising  to  a  stage  crisis.  The  snarl  straight- 
ened on  the  lips  of  Black  Morgan  Gandil. 

"He's  lying  in  his  house  a  few  miles  out  of  Mor- 
gantown.  As  he  died  he  told  me  that  he  wanted 
to  be  buried  in  a  corner  plot  in  the  Morgantown 
graveyard.  He'd  seen  the  place  and  counted  it  for 
his  a  good  many  years  because  he  said  the  grass 


JACK  GROWS  UP  93 

grew  quicker  there  than  any  other  place,  after  the 


snow  went." 


"A  damned  good  reason,"  said  Garry  Patterson. 
As  the  idea  stuck  more  deeply  into  his  imagination 
he  smashed  his  fist  down  on  the  table  so  that  the 
crockery  on  it  danced.  UA  damned  good  reason, 
say  I!" 

"Who's  your  father?"  asked  Dick  Wilbur,  who 
eyed  Pierre  more  critically  but  with  less  enmity  than 
the  rest. 

"Martin  Ryder." 

"A  ringer !"  cried  Bud  Mansie,  and  he  leaned  for* 
ward  alertly.  "You  remember  what  I  said,  Jim?" 

"Shut  up.  Pierre,  talk  soft  and  talk  quick.  We 
all  know  Mart  Ryder  had  only  two  sons  and  you're 
not  either  of  them." 

The  Northener  grew  stiff  and  as  his  face  grew 
pale  the  red  mark  where  the  stone  had  struck  his 
forehead  stood  out  like  a  danger  signal. 

He  said  slowly:  "I'm  his  son,  but  not  by  the 
mother  of  those  two." 

"Was  he  married  twice?" 

Pierre  was  paler  still,  and  there  was  an  uneasy 
twitching  of  his  right  hand  which  every  man  under- 
stood. 

He  barely  whispered.    "No;  damn  youl" 

But  Black  Gandil  loved  evil. 

He  said,  with  a  marvelously  unpleasant  smile: 
"Then  she  was " 

The  voice  of  Dick  Wilbur  cut  in  like  the  snapping 
of  a  whip:  "Shut  up,  Gandil,  you  devil  1" 


94  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

There  were  times  when  not  even  Boone  would 
cross  Wilbur,  and  this  was  one  of  them. 

Pierre  went  on:  "The  reason  I  can't  go  to  Mor- 
gantown  is  that  I'm  not  very  well  liked  by  some  of 
the  men  there.'* 

"Why  not?" 

"When  my  father  died  there  was  no  money  to  pay 
for  his  burial.  I  had  only  a  half-dollar  piece.  I 
went  to  the  town  and  gambled  and  won  a  great  deal. 
But  before  I  came  out  I  got  mixed  up  with  a  man 
called  Hurley,  a  professional  gambler." 

"And  Diaz?"  queried  a  chorus. 

"Yes.  Hurley  was  hurt  in  the  wrist  and  Diaz 
died.  I  think  I'm  wanted  in  Morgantown." 

Out  of  a  little  silence  came  the  voice  of  Black 
Gandil:  "Dick,  I'm  thankin'  you  now  for  cuttin'  me 
so  short  a  minute  ago." 

Phil  Branch  had  not  spoken,  as  usual,  but  now 
he  repeated,  with  rapt,  far-off  eyes :  "  'Hurley  was 
hurt  in  the  wrist  and  Diaz  died?'  Hurley  and 
Diaz !  I  played  with  Hurley,  a  couple  of  times." 

"Speakin'  personal,"  said  Garry  Patterson,  his 
red  verging  toward  purple  in  excitement,  "which  I'm 
ready  to  go  with  you  down  to  Morgantown  and  bury 
your  father." 

"And  do  it  shipshape,"  added  Black  Gandil. 

"With  all  the  trimmings,"  said  Bud  Mansie, 
"with  all  Morgantown  joinin'  the  mournin'  volun- 
tarily under  cover  of  our  six-guns." 

"Wait,"  said  Boone.  "What's  the  second  re- 
quest?" 

"That  can  wait." 


JACK  GROWS  UP  95 

"It's  a  bigger  job  than  this  one?" 

"Lots  bigger." 

"And  in  the  mean  time?" 

"I'm  your  man." 

They  shook  hands.  Even  Black  Gandil  rose  to 
take  his  share  in  the  ceremony — all  save  Bud  Man- 
sie,  who  had  glanced  out  the  window  a  moment  be- 
fore and  then  silently  left  the  room.  A  bottle  of 
whiskey  was  produced  and  glasses  filled  all  round. 
Jim  Boone  brought  in  the  seventh  chair  and  placed 
it  at  the  table.  They  raised  their  glasses. 

"To  the  empty  chair,"  said  Boone. 

They  drank,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the 
liquid  fire  went  down  the  throat  of  Pierre.  He  set 
down  his  glass,  coughing,  and  the  others  laughed 
good-naturedly. 

"Started  down  the  wrong  way?"  asked  Wilbur. 

"It's  beastly  stuff;  first  I  ever  drank." 

A  roar  of  laughter  answered  him. 

"Still  I  got  an  idea,"  broke  in  Jim  Boone,  "that 
he's  worthy  of  takin'  the  seventh  chair.  Draw  it 
up  lad." 

Vaguely  it  reminded  Pierre  of  a  scene  in  some 
old  play  with  himself  in  the  role  of  the  hero  signing 
away  his  soul  to  the  devil,  but  an  interruption  kept 
him  from  taking  the  chair.  There  was  a  racket  at 
the  door — a  half-sobbing,  half-scolding  voice,  and 
the  laughter  of  a  man;  then  Bud  Mansie  appeared 
carrying  Jack  in  spite  of  her  struggles.  He  placed 
her  on  the  floor  and  held  her  hands  to  protect  him- 
self from  her  fury. 

"I  glimpsed  her  through  the  window,"  he  ex- 


96  RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

plained.  "She  was  lining  out  for  the  stable  and 
then  a  minute  later  I  saw  her  swing  a  saddle  onto — 
what  horse  d'you  think?" 

"Out  with  it." 

"Jim's  big  Thunder.  Yep,  she  stuck  the  saddle 
on  big  black  Thunder  and  had  a  rifle  in  the  holster. 
I  saw  there  was  hell  brewing  somewhere,  so  I  went 
out  and  nabbed  her." 

"Jack!"  called  Jim  Boone.  "What  were  you 
started  for?" 

Bud  Mansie  released  her  arms  and  she  stood 
with  them  stiffening  at  her  sides  and  her  small 
brown  fists  clenched. 

"Hal — he  died,  and  there  was  nothing  but  talk 
about  him — nothing  done.  You  got  a  live  man  in 
Hal's  place." 

She  pointed  an  accusing  finger  at  Pierre. 

"Maybe  he  takes  his  place  for  you,  but  he's  not 
my  brother — I  hate  him.  I  went  out  to  get  another 
man  to  make  up  for  Pierre." 

"Well?" 

"A  dead  man.    I  shoot  straight  enough  for  that." 

A  very  solemn  silence  spread  through  the  room; 
for  every  man  was  watching  in  the  eyes  of  the  father 
and  daughter  the  same  shining  black  devil  of  wrath. 

"Jack,  get  into  your  room  and  don't  move  out  of 
it  till  I  tell  you  to.  D'you  hear?" 

She  turned  on  her  heel  like  a  soldier  and  marched 
from  the  room. 

"Jack." 

She  stopped  in  the  door  but  would  not  turn  back, 


JACK  GROWS  UP  j7 

and  still  the  room,  watching  that  little  tragedy,  was 
breathless. 

"Jack,  don't  you  love  your  old  dad  any  more?" 

She  whirled  and  ran  to  him  with  outstretched  arms 
and  clung  to  him,  sobbing. 

uOh,  dad — dear  dad,"  she  groaned.  "You've 
broken  my  heart;  youVe  broken  my  heart!" 

The  others  filed  softly  out  of  the  room  and  stood 
bareheaded  under  the  winter  sky. 

Bud  Mansie,  his  meager  face  transformed  with 
wonder,  said:  "Fellers,  what  d'you  know  about  it? 
Our  Jack's  grown  up." 

And  Black  Gandil  answered:  "Look  at  this  Pierre 
frowning  at  the  ground.  It  was  him  that  changed 
her.11 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   BURIAL 

THE  annals  of  the  mountain  desert  have  never 
been  written  and  can  never  be  written.  They  are 
merely  a  vast  mass  of  fact  and  tradition  and  imagin- 
ing which  floats  from  tongue  to  tongue  from  the 
Rockies  to  the  Sierra  Nevadas.  A  man  may  be  a 
fact  all  his  life  and  die  only  a  local  celebrity.  Then 
again,  he  may  strike  sparks  from  that  imagination 
which  runs  riot  by  camp-fires  and  at  the  bars  of  the 
crossroads  saloons. 

In  that  case  he  becomes  immortal.  It  is  not  that 
lies  are  told  about  him  or  impossible  feats  ascribed 
to  him,  but  every  detail  about  him  is  seized  upon 
and  passed  on  with  a  most  scrupulous  and  loving 
care. 

In  due  time  he  will  become  a  tradition.  That  is, 
he  will  be  known  familiarly  at  widely  separated  parts 
of  the  range,  places  which  he  has  never  visited.  It 
has  happened  to  a  few  of  the  famous  characters  of 
the  mountain  desert  that  they  became  traditions  be- 
fore their  deaths.  It  happened  to  McGurk,  of 
course.  It  also  happened  to  Red  Pierre. 

Oddly  enough,  the  tradition  of  Red  Pierre  did 
not  begin  with  his  ride  from  the  school  of  Father 
Victor  to  Morgantown,  distant  many  days  of  difficult 

98 


THE  BURIAL  99 

and  dangerous  travel.  Neither  did  tradition  seize 
on  the  gun  fight  that  crippled  Hurley  and  "put  out" 
wizard  Diaz.  These  things  were  unquestionably 
known  to  many,  but  they  did  not  strike  the  popular 
imagination.  What  set  men  first  on  fire  was  the  way 
Pierre  le  Rouge  buried  his  father  "at  the  point  of 
the  gun"  in  Morgantown. 

That  day  Boone's  men  galloped  out  of  the  higher 
mountains  down  the  trail  toward  Morgantown. 
They  stole  a  wagon  out  of  a  ranch  stable  on  the  way 
and  tied  two  lariats  to  the  tongue.  So  they  towed 
it,  bounding  and  rattling,  over  the  rough  trail  to  the 
house  where  Martin  Ryder  lay  dead. 

His  body  was  placed  in  state  in  the  body  of  the 
wagon,  pillowed  with  everything  in  the  line  of  cloth 
which  the  house  could  furnish.  Thus  equipped  they 
went  on  at  a  more  moderate  pace  toward  Morgan- 
town. 

What  followed  it  is  useless  to  repeat  here.  Tra- 
dition rehearsed  every  detail  of  that  day's  work,  and 
the  purpose  of  this  narrative  is  only  to  give  the  de- 
tails of  some  of  the  events  which  tradition  does 
not  know,  at  least  in  their  entirety. 

They  started  at  one  end  of  Morgantown's  street. 
Pierre  guarded  the  wagon  in  the  center  of  the  street 
and  kept  the  people  under  cover  of  his  rifle.  The 
rest  of  Boone's  men  cleaned  out  the  houses  as  they 
went  and  sent  the  occupants  piling  out  to  swell  the 
crowd. 

And  so  they  rolled  the  crowd  out  of  town  and  to 
the  cemetery,  where  "volunteers"  dug  the  grave  of 


ioo         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

Martin  Ryder  wide  and  deep,  and  Pierre  paid  for 
the  corner  plot  three  times  over  in  gold. 

Then  a  coffin — improvised  hastily  for  the  occasion 
out  of  a  packing-box — was  lowered  reverently,  also 
by  "volunteer"  mourners,  and  before  the  first  sod 
fell  on  the  dead,  Pierre  borrowed  a  long  black  cloak 
from  one  of  the  women  and  wrapped  himself  in  it, 
in  lieu  of  the  robe  of  the  priest,  and  raised  over  his 
head  the  crucifix  of  Father  Victor  that  brought 
good  luck,  and  intoned  a  service  in  the  purest  Cicer- 
onian Latin,  surely,  that  ever  regaled  the  ears  of 
Morgantown's  elect. 

The  moment  he  raised  that  cross  the  bull  throat 
of  Jim  Boone  bellowed  a  command,  the  poised  guns 
of  the  gang  enforced  it,  and  all  the  crowd  dropped 
to  their  knees,  leaving  the  six  outlaws  scattered  about 
the  edges  of  the  mob  like  sheep  dogs  around  a  fold- 
ing flock,  while  in  the  center  stood  Pierre  with  white, 
upturned  face  and  the  raised  cross. 

So  Martin  Ryder  was  buried  with  "trimmings," 
and  the  gang  rode  back,  laughing  and  shouting, 
through  the  town  and  up  into  the  safety  of  the 
mountains.  Election  day  was  fast  approaching  and 
therefore  the  rival  candidates  for  sheriff  hastily  or- 
ganized posses  and  made  the  usual  futile  pursuit. 

In  fact,  before  the  pursuit  was  well  under  way, 
Boone  and  his  men  sat  at  their  supper  table  in  the 
cabin.  The  seventh  chair  was  filled;  all  were  present 
except  Jack,  who  sulked  in  her  room.  Pierre  went 
to  her  door  and  knocked.  He  carried  under  his 
arm  a  package  which  he  had  secured  in  the  General 
Merchandise  Store  of  Morgantown. 


THE  BURIAL  101 

"We're  all  waiting  for  you  at  the  table,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

"Just  keep  on  waiting,"  said  the  husky  roice  of 
Jacqueline. 

"If  I  leave  the  table  will  you  come  out?" 

She  stammered:  "Ye — n-no!" 

"Yes  or  no?" 

"No,  no,  no!" 

And  he  heard  the  stamp  of  her  foot  and  smiled 
a  little. 

"I've  brought  you  a  present." 

"I  hate  your  presents !" 

"It's  a  thing  you've  wanted  for  a  long  time,  Jac- 
queline." 

Only  a  stubborn  silence. 

"I'm  putting  your  door  a  little  ajar." 

"If  you  dare  to  come  in  I'll — " 

"And  I'm  leaving  the  package  right  here  at  the 
entrance.  I'm  so  sorry,  Jacqueline,  that  you  hate 


me." 


And  then  he  walked  off  down  the  hall — cunning 
Pierre — before  she  could  send  her  answer  like  an 
arrow  after  him.  At  the  table  he  arranged  an 
eighth  plate  and  drew  up  a  chair  before  it. 

"If  that's  for  Jack,"  remarked  Dick  Wilbur, 
"you're  wasting  your  time.  I  know  her  and  I  know 
her  type.  She'll  never  come  out  to  the  table  to- 
night— nor  to-morrow,  either.  I  know!" 

In  fact,  he  knew  a  good  deal  too  much  about  girls 
and  women  also,  did  Wilbur,  and  that  was  why 
he  rode  the  long  trails  of  the  mountain-desert  with 
Boone  and  his  men.  Far  south  and  east  in  the  Ba- 


102         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

hamas  a  great  mansion  stood  vacant  because  he  was 
gone,  and  the  dust  lay  thick  on  the  carpets  and 
powdered  the  curtains  and  tapestries  with  a  common 
gray. 

He  had  built  it  and  furnished  it  for  a  woman 
he  loved,  and  afterward  for  her  sake  he  had  killed 
a  man  and  fled  from  a  posse  and  escaped  in  the 
steerage  of  a  west-bound  ship.  Still  the  law  fol- 
lowed him,  and  he  kept  on  west  and  west  until  he 
reached  the  mountain-desert  which  thinks  nothing 
of  swallowing  men  and  their  reputations. 

There  he  was  safe,  but  some  day  he  would  see 
some  woman  smile,  catch  the  glimmer  of  some  eye, 
and  throw  safety  away  to  ride  after  her. 

It  was  a  weakness,  but  what  made  a  tragic  figure 
of  handsome  Dick  Wilbur  was  that  he  knew  his 
weakness  and  sat  still  and  let  fate  walk  up  and 
overtake  him. 

Yet  Pierre  le  Rouge  answered  this  man  of  sorrow- 
ful wisdom:  uln  my  part  of  the  country  men  say: 
'If  you  would  speak  of  women  let  money  talk  for 
you.'" 

And  he  placed  a  gold  piece  on  the  table. 

"She  will  come  out  to  the  supper  table." 

"She  will  not,"  smiled  Wilbur,  and  covered  the 
coin.  "Will  you  take  odds?" 

"No  charity.    Who  else  will  bet?" 

"I,"  said  Jim  Boone  instantly.  "You  figure  her 
for  an  ordinary  sulky  kid." 

Pierre  smiled  upon  him. 

"There's  a  cut  in  my  shirt  where  her  knife  passed 


y  THE  BURIAL  103 

through;  and  that's  the  reason  that  I'll  bet  on  her 


now." 


The  whole  table  covered  his  coin,  with  laughter. 

"We've  kept  one  part  of  your  bargain,  Pierre. 
We've  seen  your  father  buried  in  the  corner  plot. 
Now,  what's  the  second  part?" 

"I  don't  know  you  well  enough  to  ask  you  that," 
said  Pierre. 

They  plied  him  with  suggestions. 

"To  rob  the  Berwin  Bank?" 

"Stick  up  a  train?" 

"No.     That's  nothing." 

"Round  up  the  sheriffs  from  here  to  the  end  of 
the  mountains?" 

"Too  easy." 

"Roll  all  those  together,"  said  Pierre,  "and  you'll 
begin  to  get  an  idea  of  what  I'll  ask." 

Then  a  low  voice  called  from  the  black  throat  of 
the  hall  "Pierre!" 

The  others  were  silent,  but  Pierre  winked  at 
them,  and  made  great  flourish  with  knife  and  fork 
against  his  plate  as  if  to  cover  the  sound  of  Jac- 
queline's voice. 

"Pierre!"  she  called  again.  "I've  come  to  thank 
you." 

He  jumped  up  and  turned  toward  the  hall. 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"It's  a  wonder!" 

"Then  we' re  friends?" 

"If  you  want  to  be." 

"There's  nothing  I  want  more.  Then  you'll  come 
out  and  have  supper  with  us,  Jack?" 


io4         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"Pierre—" 

"Yes?" 

"I'm  ashamed.  I've  been  acting  like  a  silly  kid." 

"But  we're  waiting  for  you." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  and  then  Jim  Boone 
struck  his  fist  on  the  table  and  cursed,  for  she 
stepped  from  the  darkness  into  the  flaring  light  of 
the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  TALE  OF  THE  SLEDGE 

SHE  wore  a  cartridge  belt  slung  jauntily  across 
her  hips  and  from  it  hung  a  holster  of  stiff  new 
leather  with  the  top  flap  open  to  show  the  butt  of 
a  man-sized  forty-five  caliber  six-shooter — her  first 
gun.  Not  a  man  of  the  gang  but  had  loaned  her  his 
guns  time  and  again,  but  they  had  never  dreamed  of 
giving  the  child  a  weapon  of  her  own. 

So  they  stared  at  her  agape,  where  she  stood  with 
her  head  back,  one  slender  hand  resting  on  her  hip, 
one  hovering  about  the  butt  of  the  gun,  as  if  she 
challenged  them  to  question  her  right  to  be  called 


"man." 


It  was  as  if  she  abandoned  all  claims  to  femininity 
with  that  single  step ;  the  gun  at  her  side  made  her 
seem  inches  taller  and  years  older.  She  was  no 
longer  a  child,  but  a  long-rider  who  could  back  any 
horse  on  the  range  and  shoot  with  the  best. 

One  glance  she  cast  about  the  room  to  drink  in 
the  amazement  of  the  gang,  and  then  with  a  pro- 
found instinct  guiding  her,  she  picked  out  the  best 
critic  in  the  room  and  said  to  him  with  a  frown: 
"Well,  Dick,  how's  it  hang?" 

The  big  man  was  as  flushed  as  the  girl. 
105 


106         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"Hangs  like  a  charm,"  he  said,  "a  charm  that  '11 
be  apt  to  make  men  step  about." 

And  her  father  broke  in  rather  hoarsely:  "Sit 
down,  girl.  Sit  down  and  be  one  of  us.  One  of 
us  you  are  by  your  own  choice  from  this  day  on. 
You're  neither  man  nor  woman,  but  a  long-rider 
with  every  man's  hand  against  you.  You've  done 
with  any  hope  of  a  home  or  of  friends.  You're  one 
of  us.  Poor  Jack — my  girl !" 

"Poor?"  she  returned.  "Not  while  I  can  make  a 
quick  draw  and  shoot  straight." 

And  then  she  swept  the  circle  of  eyes,  daring  them 
to  take  her  boast  lightly,  but  they  knew  her  too  well, 
and  were  all  solemnly  silent.  At  this  she  relented 
somewhat,  and  went  directly  to  Pierre,  flushing  from 
throat  to  hair.  She  held  out  her  hand. 

"Will  you  shake  and  call  it  square?" 

"I  sure  will,"  nodded  Pierre. 

"And  we're  pals — you  and  me,  like  the  rest  of 
'em?" 

"We  are." 

"Shake  again." 

She  took  the  place  beside  him. 

Garry  Patterson  was  telling  how  he  had  said  fare- 
well to  a  Swedish  sweetheart,  and  the  roar  of 
laugher  took  the  eyes  away  from  Jacqueline  for  a 
moment.  So  she  leaned  to  Pierre  le  Rouge  and 
whispered  at  his  ear:  "Pierre  you've  made  me  the 
happiest  fellow  on  the  range." 

As  the  whisky  went  round  after  round  and  the 
fun  waxed  higher  the  two  seemed  shut  away  from 
the  others;  they  were  younger,  less  touched  and 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SLEDGE  107 

marked  by  life;  they  listened  while  the  others  talked, 
and  now  and  then  exchanged  glances  of  interest  or 
aversion. 

"Listen,"  she  said  after  a  time,  "I've  heard  this 
story  before." 

It  was  Phil  Branch,  square-built  and  square  of 
jaw,  who  was  talking. 

"There's  only  one  thing  I  can  handle  better  than 
a  gun,  and  that's  a  sledge-hammer.  A  gun  is  all 
right  in  its  way,  but  for  work  in  a  crowd,  well,  give 
me  a  hammer  and  I'll  show  you  a  way  out." 

Bud  Mansie  grinned:  "Leave  me  my  pair  of  sixes 
and  you  can  have  all  the  hammers  between  here 
and  Central  Park  in  a  crowd.  There's  nothing 
makes  a  crowd  remember  its  heels  like  a  pair  of 
barking  sixes." 

"Ah,  ah!"  growled  Branch.  "But  when  they've 
heard  bone  crunch  under  the  hammer  there's  noth- 
ing will  hold  them." 

"I'd  have  to  see  that." 

"Maybe  you  will,  Bud,  maybe  you  will.  It  was 
the  hammer  that  started  me  for  the  long  trail  west. 
I  had  a  big  Scotchman  in  the  factory  who  couldn't 
learn  how  to  weld.  I'd  taught  him  day  after  day 
and  cursed  him  and  damn  near  prayed  for  him.  But 
he  somehow  wouldn't  learn — the  swine — ah,  ah !" 

He  grew  vindictively  black  at  the  memory. 

"Every  night  he  wiped  out  what  I'd  taught  him 
during  the  day  and  the  eraser  he  used  was  booze. 
So  one  fine  day  I  dropped  the  hammer  after  watch- 
in1  him  make  a  botch  on  a  big  bar,  and  cussed  him 
up  one  leg  and  down  the  other.  The  Scotchman  had 


io8         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

a  hang-over  from  the  night  before  and  he  made  a 
pass  at  me.  It  was  too  much  for  me  just  then,  for 
the  day  was  hot  and  the  forge  fire  had  been  spitting 
cinders  in  my  face  all  morning.  So  I  took  him  by 
the  throat" 

He  reached  out  and  closed  his  taut  fingers  slowly. 

"I  didn't  mean  nothin'  by  it,  but  after  a  man  has 
been  moldin'  iron,  flesh  is  pretty  weak  stuff.  When 
I  let  go  of  Scotchy  he  dropped  on  the  floor,  and 
while  I  stood  starin'  down  at  him  somebody  seen 
what  had  happened  and  spread  the  word. 

"I  wasn't  none  too  popular,  bein'  not  much  on 
talk,  so  the  boys  got  together  and  pretty  soon  they 
come  pilin'  through  the  door  at  me,  packin'  every- 
thing from  hatchets  to  crowbars. 

uLads,  I  was  sorry  about  Scotchy,  but  after  I 
glimpsed  that  gang  comin'  I  wasn't  sorry  for  noth- 
ing. I  felt  like  singin',  though  there  wasn't  no  song 
that  could  say  just  what  I  meant.  But  I  grabbed  up 
the  big  fourteen-pound  hammer  and  met  'em  half- 
way. 

"The  first  swing  of  the  hammer  it  met  something 
hard,  but  not  as  hard  as  iron.  The  thing  crunched 
with  a  sound  like  an  egg  under  a  heavy  man's  heel. 
And  when  that  crowd, heard  it  they  looked  sick. 
God,  how  sick  they  looked!  They  didn't  wait  for 
no  second  swing,  but  they  beat  it  hard  and  fast 
through  the  door  with  me  after  'em.  They  scat- 
tered, but  I  kept  right  on  and  didn't  never  really  stop 
till  I  reached  the  mountain-desert  and  you,  Jim." 

"Which  is  a  good  yarn,"  said  Bud  Mansie,  "but 
I  can  tell  you  one  that  '11  cap  it.  It  was " 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SLEDGE          109 

He  stopped  short,  staring  up  at  the  door.  Out- 
side, the  wind  had  kept  up  a  perpetual  roaring,  and 
no  one  noticed  the  noise  of  the  opening  door.  Bud 
Mansie,  facing  that  door,  however,  turned  a  queer 
yellow  and  sat  with  his  lips  parted  on  the  last  word. 
He  was  not  pretty  to  see.  The  others  turned  their 
heads,  and  there  followed  the  strangest  panic  which 
Pierre  had  even  seen. 

Jim  Boone  jerked  his  hand  back  to  his  hip,  but 
stayed  the  motion,  half  completed,  and  swung  his 
hands  stiffly  above  his  head.  Garry  Patterson  sat 
with  his  eyes  blinked  shut,  pale,  waiting  for  death 
to  come.  Dick  Wilbur  rose,  tall  and  stiff,  and  stood 
with  his  hands  gripped  at  his  sides,  and  Black  Mor- 
gan Gandil  clutched  at  the  table  before  him  and  his 
keen  eyes  wandered  swiftly  about  the  room,  seeking 
a  place  for  escape. 

There  was  only  one  sound,  and  that  was  a  whis- 
pering moan  of  terror  from  Jacqueline.  Only  Pierre 
made  no  move,  yet  he  felt  as  he  had  when  the  black 
mass  of  the  landslide  loomed  above  him. 

What  he  saw  in  the  door  was  a  man  of  medium 
size  and  almost  slender  build.  In  spite  of  the  patch 
of  gray  hair  at  either  temple  he  was  only  somewhere 
between  twenty-five  and  thirty.  But  to  see  him  was 
to  forget  all  details  except  the  strangest  face  which 
Pierre  had  ever  seen  or  would  ever  look  upon  in  all 
his  career. 

It  was  pale,  with  a  pallor  strange  to  the  ranges; 
even  the  lips  seemed  bloodless,  and  they  curved  with 
a  suggestion  of  a  smile  that  was  a  nervous  habit 
rather  than  any  sign  of  mirth.  The  nerves  of  the 


no        RIDE'RS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

left  eye  were  also  affected,  and  the  lid  dropped  and 
fluttered  almost  shut,  so  that  he  had  to  carry  his 
head  far  back  in  order  to  see  plainly.  There  was 
such  indomitable  pride  and  scorn  in  the  man  that  his 
name  came  up  to  the  lips  of  Pierre:  "McGurk." 

A  surprisingly  gentle  voice  said:  "Jim,  I'm  sorry 
to  drop  in  on  you  this  way,  but  I've  had  some  un- 
pleasant news." 

His  words  dispelled  part  of  the  charm.  The 
hands  of  big  Boone  lowered;  the  others  assumed 
more  natural  positions,  but  each,  it  seemed  to  Pierre, 
took  particular  and  almost  ostentatious  care  that 
their  right  hands  should  be  always  far  from  the 
holsters  of  their  guns. 

The  stranger  went  on:  uMartin  Ryder  is  finished, 
as  I  suppose  you  know.  He  left  a  spawn  of  two 
mongrels  behind  him.  I  haven't  bothered  with 
them,  but  I'm  a  little  more  interested  in  another  son 
that  has  cropped  up.  He's  sitting  over  there  in  your 
family  party  and  his  name  is  Pierre.  In  his  own 
country  they  call  him  Pierre  le  Rouge,  which  means 
Red  Pierre,  in  our  talk. 

"You  know  I  don't  like  to  be  dictatorial,  and  I've 
never  crossed  you  in  anything  before,  Jim.  Have 
I?" 

Boone  moistened  his  white  lips  and  answered: 
"Never,"  huskily,  as  if  it  were  a  great  muscular  ef- 
fort for  him  to  speak. 

"This  time  I  have  to  break  the  custom.  Boone, 
this  fellow  Pierre  has  to  leave  the  country.  Will 
you  see  that  he  goes?" 

The  lips  of  Boone  moved  and  made  no  sound. 


A  TALE  OF  THE  SLEDGE          in 

He  said  at  length:  "McGurk,  I'd  rather  cross 
the  devil  than  cross  you.  There's  no  shame  in  ad- 
mitting that.  But  Fve  lost  my  boy,  Hal." 

"Too  bad,  Jim.     I  knew  Hal;  at  a  distance,  of 


course." 


"And  Pierre  is  filling  Hal's  place  in  the  family." 

"Is  that  your  answer?" 

"McGurk,  are  you  going  to  pin  me  down  in  this?" 

And  here  Jack  whirled  and  cried:  "Dad,  you 
won't  let  Pierre  go!" 

"You  see?"  pleaded  Boone. 

It  was  uncanny  and  horrible  to  see  the  giant  so 
unnerved  before  this  stranger,  but  that  part  of  it  did 
not  come  to  Pierre  until  later.  Now  he  felt  a 
peculiar  emptiness  of  stomach  and  a  certain  jumping 
chill  that  traveled  up  and  down  his  spine.  More- 
over, he  could  not  move  his  eyes  from  the  face  of 
McGurk,  and  he  knew  at  length  that  this  was  fear — 
the  first  real  fear  that  he  had  ever  known. 

Shame  made  him  hot,  but  fear  made  him  cold 
again.  He  knew  that  if  he  rose  his  knees  would 
buckle  under  him;  that  if  he  drew  out  his  revolver 
it  would  slip  from  his  palsied  fingers.  For  the  fear 
of  death  is  a  mighty  fear,  but  it  is  nothing  compared 
with  the  fear  of  man. 

"I've  asked  you  a  question,"  said  McGurk. 
"What's  your  answer?" 

There  was  a  quiver  in  the  black  forest  of  Boone's 
beard,  and  if  Pierre  was  cold  before,  he  was  sick  at 
heart  to  see  the  big  man  cringe  before  McGurk. 

He  stammered :  "Give  me  time." 

"Good,"  said  McGurk.    "I'm  afraid  I  know  what 


112         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

your  answer  would  be  now,  but  if  you  take  a  couple 
of  days  you  will  think  things  over  and  come  to  a 
reasonable  conclusion.  I  will  be  at  Gaffney's  place 
about  fifteen  miles  from  here.  You  know  it?  Send 
your  answer  there.  In  the  mean  time" — he  stepped 
forward  to  the  table  and  poured  a  small  drink  of 
whiskey  into  a  glass  and  raised  it  high — "here's  to 
the  long  health  and  happiness  of  us  all.  Drink !" 

There  was  a  hasty  pouring  of  liquor. 

"And  you  also!" 

Pierre  jumped  as  if  he  had  been  struck,  and 
obeyed  the  order  hastily. 

"So,"  said  the  master,  pleasant  again,  and  Pierre 
wiped  his  forehead  furtively  and  stared  up  with  fas- 
cinated eyes.  "An  unwilling  pledge  is  better  than 
none  at  all.  To  you,  gentleman,  much  happiness; 
to  you,  Pierre  le  Rouge,  bon  voyage." 

They  drank;  the  master  placed  his  glass  on  the 
table  again,  smiled  upon  them,  and  was  gone  through 
the  door.  He  turned  his  back  in  leaving.  There 
was  no  fitter  way  in  which  he  could  have  expressed 
his  contempt 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MCGURK 

THE  mirth  died  and  in  its  place  came  a  long 
silence.  Jim  Boone  stared  upon  Pierre  with  miser- 
able eyes,  and  then  rose  and  left  the  roomt  The 
others  one  by  one  followed  his  example.  Dick  Wil- 
bur in  passing  dropped  his  hand  on  Pierre's  shoul- 
der. Jacqueline  was  silent. 

As  he  sat  there  minute  after  minute  and  then 
hour  after  hour  of  the  long  night  Pierre  saw  the 
meaning  of  it.  If  they  sent  word  that  they  would 
not  give  up  Pierre  it  was  war,  and  war  with  McGurk 
had  only  one  ending.  If  they  sent  word  that  Pierre 
was  surrendered  the  shame  would  never  leave  Boone 
and  his  men. 

Whatever  they  did  there  was  ruin  for  them  in 
the  end.  All  this  Pierre  conned  slowly  in  his  mind, 
until  he  was  cold.  Then  he  looked  up  and  saw  that 
the  lamp  had  burned  out  and  that  the  wood  in  the 
fireplace  was  consumed  to  a  few  red  embers. 

He  replenished  the  fire,  and  when  the  yellow 
flames  began  to  mount  he  made  his  resolution  and 
walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  floor  with  it.  For 
he  knew  that  he  must  go  to  meet  McGurk. 

The  very  thought  of  the  man  sent  the  old  chill 
"3 


H4         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

through  his  blood,  yet  he  must  go  and  face  him  and 
end  the  thing. 

It  came  over  him  with  a  pang  that  he  was  very 
young;  that  life  was  barely  a  taste  in  his  mouth, 
whether  bitter  or  sweet  he  could  not  tell.  He 
picked  a  flaming  stick  from  the  fire  and  went  before 
a  little  round  mirror  on  the  wall. 

Back  at  him  stared  the  face  of  a  boy.  He  had 
seen  so  much  of  the  grim  six  in  the  last  day  that  the 
contrast  startled  him.  They  were  men,  hardened 
to  life  and  filled  with  knowledge  of  it.  They  were 
books  written  full  and  ready  to  be  ended.  But  he? 
He  was  a  blank  page  with  a  scribbled  word  here  and 
there.  Nevertheless,  he  was  chosen  and  he  must 

go- 
Having  reached  that  decision  he  closed  his  mind 

on  what  would  happen.  There  was  a  vague  fear 
that  when  he  faced  McGurk  he  would  be  unmanned 
again  and  frozen  with  fear;  that  his  spirit  would 
be  broken  and  he  would  become  a  thing  too  despic- 
able for  a  man  to  kill. 

One  thing  was  certain:  if  he  was  to  act  a  man's 
part  and  die  a  man's  death  he  must  not  stand  long 
before  McGurk.  It  seemed  to  him  then  that  he 
would  die  happy  if  he  had  the  strength  to  fire  one 
shot  before  the  end. 

Then  he  tiptoed  from  the  house  and  went  over 
the  snow  to  the  barn  and  saddled  the  horse  of  Hal 
Boone.  It  was  already  morning,  and  as  he  led  the 
horse  to  the  door  of  the  barn  a  shadow,  a  faint 
shadow  in  that  early  light,  fell  across  the  snow  be- 
fore him. 


McGURK  115 

He  looked  up  and  saw  Jacqueline.  She  stepped 
close,  and  the  horse  nosed  her  shoulder  affection- 
ately. 

She  said:  "Isn't  there  anything  that  will  keep 
you  from  going?" 

"It's  just  a  little  ride  before  breakfast.  I'll  be 
back  in  an  hour." 

It  was  foolish  to  try  to  blind  her,  as  he  saw  by 
her  wan,  unchildish  smile. 

"Is  there  no  other  way,  Pierre?" 

"I  don't  know  of  any,  do  you?" 

"You  have  to  leave  us,  and  never  come  back?" 

"Is  he  as  sure  as  that,  Jack?" 

"Sure?     Who?" 

She  had  not  known,  after  all;  she  thought  that  he 
was  merely  riding  away  from  the  region  where  Mc- 
Gurk  was  king.  Now  she  caught  his  wrists  and 
shook  them. 

"Pierre,  you  arc  not  going  to  face  McGurk? 
Pierre!" 

It  was  sweet  and  bitter-sweet  that  the  child  should 
wish  him  to  stay,  and  it  made  the  heart  of  Pierre  old 
and  stern  to  look  down  on  her. 

"If  you  were  a  man,  you  would  understand.11 

"I  know;  because  of  your  father.  I  do  under- 
stand, but  oh,  Pierre,  it  makes  me  so  unhappy — so 
terribly  sad,  Pierre." 

Inspiration  made  her  catch  her  breath. 

"Listen!  I  can  shoot  as  straight  as  almost  any 
man.  We  will  ride  down  together.  We  will  go 
through  the  doors  together — me  first  to  take  his  fire, 
and  you  behind  to  shoot  him  down." 


n6         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"I  guess  no  man  can  be  as  brave  as  a  woman, 
Jack.  No;  I  have  to  see  McGurk  alone.  He  faced 
my  father  alone  and  shot  him  down.  I'll  face  Mc- 
Gurk alone  and  live  long  enough  to  put  my  mark  on 
him." 

"But  you  don't  know  him.  He  can't  be  hurt. 
Do  you  think  my  father  and — and  Dick  Wilbur 
would  fear  any  man  who  could  be  hurt?  No,  but 
McGurk  has  been  in  a  hundred  fights  and  never  been 
touched.  There's  a  charm  over  him,  don't  you  see?" 

"I'll  break  the  charm,  that's  all." 

"You're  only  a  boy,  Pierre." 

"I,  also,  carry  a  charm  with  me.     Good-by." 

He  was  up  in  the  saddle. 

'Then  I'll  call  dad— I'll  call  them  all— if  you 
die  they  shall  all  follow  you.  I  swear  they  shall. 
Pierre!" 

He  merely  leaned  forward  and  touched  the  horse 
with  his  spurs,  but  after  he  had  raced  the  first 
hundred  yards  he  glanced  back.  She  was  running 
hard  for  the  house,  and  calling  as  she  went.  Pierre 
cursed  and  spurred  the  horse  again. 

Yet  even  if  Jim  Boone  and  his  men  started  out 
after  him  they  could  never  overtake  him.  Before 
they  were  in  their  saddles  and  up  with  him,  he'd  be 
a  full  three  miles  out  in  the  hills.  Not  even  black 
Thunder  could  make  up  as  much  ground  as  that. 

So  all  the  fifteen  miles  to  Gaffney's  place  he  urged 
his  horse.  The  excitement  of  the  race  kept  the 
thought  of  McGurk  back  in  his  mind.  Only  once 
he  lost  time  when  he  had  to  pull  up  beside  a  buck- 
board  and  inquire  the  way.  After  that  he  flew  on 


McGURK  117 

again.  Yet  as  he  clattered  up  to  the  door  of  Gaff- 
ney's  crossroads  saloon  and  swung  to  the  ground  he 
looked  back  and  saw  a  cluster  of  horsemen  swing 
around  the  shoulder  of  a  hill  and  come  tearing  after 
him.  Surely  his  time  was  short. 

He  thrust  open  the  door  of  the  place  and  called 
for  a  drink.  The  bartender  spun  the  glass  down  the 
bar  to  him. 

"Where's  McGurk?" 

The  other  stopped  in  the  very  act  of  taking  out 
the  bottle  from  the  shelf,  and  his  curious  glance 
went  over  the  face  of  Pierre  le  Rouge.  He  decided, 
apparently,  that  it  was  foolish  to  hold  suspicions 
against  so  young  a  man. 

"In  that  room,"  and  he  jerked  his  hand  toward 
a  door.     "What  do  you  want  with  him?" 
« "Got  a  message  for  him." 

"Tell  it  to  me,  and  I'll  pass  it  along." 

Pierre  met  the  eye  of  the  other  and  smiled  faintly. 

"Not  this  message." 

"Oh,"  said  the  other,  and  then  shouted:  "Mc- 
Gurk!" 

Far  away  came  the  rush  of  hoofs  over  a  hard 
trail.  Only  a  minute  more  and  they  would  be  here; 
only  a  minute  more  and  the  room  would  be  full  of 
fighting  men  ready  to  die  with  him  and  for  him. 
Yet  Pierre  was  glad;  glad  that  he  could  meet  the 
danger  alone ;  ten  minutes  from  now,  if  he  lived,  he 
could  answer  certainly  one  way  or  the  other  the 
greatest  of  all  questions:  "Am  I  a  man?" 

Out  of  the  inner  room  the  pleasant  voice  which 
he  dreaded  answered:  "What's  up?" 


n8         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

The  barkeeper  glanced  Pierre  le  Rouge  over 
again  and  then  answered:  "A  friend  with  a  mes- 
sage." 

The  door  opened  and  framed  McGurk.  He  did 
not  start,  seeing  Pierre. 

He  said:  "None  of  the  rest  of  them  had  the  guts 
even  to  bring  me  the  message,  eh?" 

Pierre  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  a  mighty 
effort,  but  he  was  able  to  look  his  man  fairly  in  the 
eyes. 

UA11  right,  lad.  How  long  is  it  going  to  take  you 
to  clear  out  of  the  country?" 

"That's  not  the  message,"  answered  a  voice  which 
Pierre  did  not  recognize  as  his  own. 

"Out  with  it,  then." 

"It's  in  the  leather  on  my  hip." 

And  he  went  for  his  gun.  Even  as  he  started  his 
hand  he  knew  that  he  was  too  slow  for  McGurk,  yet 
the  finest  split-second  watch  in  the  world  could  not 
have  caught  the  differing  time  they  needed  to  get 
their  guns  out  of  the  holsters. 

Just  a  breath  before  Pierre  fired  there  was  a  stun- 
ning blow  on  his  right  shoulder  and  another  on  his 
hip.  He  lurched  to  the  floor,  his  revolver  clattering 
against  the  wood  as  he  fell,  but  falling,  he  scooped 
up  the  gun  with  his  left  and  twisted. 

That  movement  made  the  third  shot  of  McGurk 
fly  wide  and  Pierre  fired  from  the  floor  and  saw  a 
,  spasm  of  pain  contract  the  face  of  the  outlaw. 

Instantly  the  door  behind  him  flew  open  and 
Boone's  men  stormed  into  the  room.  Once  more 
McGurk  fired,  but  his  wound  made  his  aim  wide  and 


McGURK  119 

the  bullet  merely  tore  up  a  splinter  beside  Pierre's 
head.  A  fusillade  from  Boone  and  his  men  an- 
swered, but  the  outlaw  had  leaped  back  through  the 
door. 

"He's  hurt,"  thundered  Boone.  "By  God,  the 
charm  of  McGurk  is  broken.  Dick,  Bud,  Gandil, 
take  the  outside  of  the  place.  I'll  force  the  door." 

Wilbur  and  the  other  two  raced  through  the  door 
and  raised  a  shout  at  once,  and  then  there  was  a 
rattle  of  shots.  Big  Patterson  leaned  over  Pierre. 

He  said  in  an  awe-stricken  voice:  "Lad,  it's  a 
great  work  that  you've  done  for  all  of  us,  if  you've 
drawn  the  blood  from  McGurk." 

"His  left  shoulder,"  said  Pierre,  and  smiled  in 
spite  of  his  pain. 

"And  you,  lad?" 

"I'm  going  to  live;  I've  got  to  finish  the  job. 
Who's  that  beside  you?  There's  a  mist  over  my 
eyes." 

"It's  Jack.     She  outrode  us  all." 

Then  the  mist  closed  over  the  eyes  of  Pierre  and 
his  senses  went  out  in  the  dark. 


• 


CHAPTER  XV 

GOLD  HAIR 

THOSE  who  are  curious  about  the  period  which 
followed  during  which  the  title  "Le  Rouge"  was  for- 
gotten and  he  became  known  only  as  "Red"  Pierre 
through  all  the  mountain-desert,  can  hear  the  tales 
of  his  doing  from  the  analists  of  the  ranges.  This 
story  has  to  do  only  with  his  struggle  with  McGurk, 
and  must  end  where  that  struggle  ended. 

The  gap  of  six  years  which  occurs  here  is  due  to 
the  fact  that  during  that  period  McGurk  vanished 
from  the  mountain-desert.  He  died  away  from  the 
eyes  of  men  and  in  their  minds  he  became  that  tra- 
dition which  lives  still  so  vividly,  the  tradition  of  the 
pale  face,  the  sneering,  bloodless  lips,  and  the  hand 
which  never  failed. 

During  this  lapse  of  time  there  were  many  who 
claimed  that  he  had  ridden  off  into  some  lonely 
haunt  and  died  of  the  wound  which  he  received  from 
Pierre's  bullet.  A  great  majority,  however,  would 
never  accept  such  a  story,  and  even  when  the  six 
years  had  rolled  by  they  still  shook  their  heads  and 
"had  their  doubt  on  the  matter"  like  Wouier  Van 
Twitter  of  immortal  memory. 

They  awaited  his  return  just  as  certain  stanch  .old 
Britons  await  the  second  coming  of  Arthur  from  the 

I2O 


GOLD  HAIR  i2i 

island  of  Avalon.  In  the  mean  time  the  terror  of 
his  name  passed  on  to  him  who  had  broken  the 
"charm"  of  McGurk. 

Not  all  that  grim  significance  passed  on  to  "Red" 
Pierre,  indeed,  because  he  never  impressed  the  public 
imagination  as  did  the  terrible  ruthlessness  of  Mc- 
Gurk. At  that  he  did  enough  to  keep  tongues  wag- 
ging. 

Cattlemen  loved  to  tell  those  familiar  exploits  of 
the  "two  sheriffs,"  or  that  "thousand-mile  pursuit  of 
Canby,"  with  its  half-tragic,  half-humorous  conclu- 
sion, or  the  "Sacking  of  Two  Rivers,"  or  the  "three- 
cornered  battle"  against  Rodriguez  and  Blond. 

But  men  could  not  forget  that  in  all  his  work  there 
rode  behind  Red  Pierre  six  dauntless  warriors  of  the 
mountain-desert,  while  McGurk  had  been  always  a 
single  hand  against  the  world,  a  veritable  lone  wolf. 

Whatever  kept  him  away  through  those  six  years, 
the  memory  of  the  wound  he  received  at  Gaffney's 
place  never  left  McGurk,  and  now  he  was  coming 
back  with  a  single  great  purpose  in  his  mind,  and  in 
his  heart  a  consuming  hatred  for  Pierre  and  all  the 
other  of  Boone's  men. 

Certainly  if  he  had  sensed  the  second  coming  of 
McGurk,  Pierre  would  not  have  ridden  so  jauntily 
through  the  hills  this  day,  or  whistled  so  carelessly, 
or  swept  the  hills  with  such  a  complacent,  lordly 
eye.  A  man  of  mark  cannot  bear  himself  too 
modestly,  and  Pierre,  from  boots  to  high-peaked, 
broad-brimmed  sombrero,  was  the  last  word  in  ele- 
gance for  a  rider  of  the  mountain-desert. 

Even  his  mount  seemed  to  sense  the  pride  of  his 


122         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

master.  It  was  a  cream-colored  mustang,  not  one 
of  the  lump-headed,  bony-hipped  species  common  to 
the  ranges,  but  one  of  those  rare  reversions  to  the 
Spanish  thoroughbreds  from  which  the  Western 
cow-pony  is  descended.  The  mare  was  not  over- 
large,  but  the  broad  hips  and  generous  expanse  of 
chest  were  hints,  and  only  hints,  of  her  strength  and 
endurance.  There  was  the  speed  of  the  blooded 
racer  in  her  and  the  tirelessness  of  the  mustang. 

Now,  down  the  rocky,  half  broken  trail  she  picked 
her  way  as  daintily  as  any  debutante  tiptoeing  down 
a  great  stairway  to  the  ballroom.  Life  had  been 
easy  for  Mary  since  that  thousand-mile  struggle  to 
overtake  Canby,  and  now  her  sides  were  sleek  from 
good  feeding  and  some  casual  twenty  miles  a  day, 
which  was  no  more  to  her  than  a  canter  through  the 
park  is  to  the  city  horse. 

The  eye  which  had  been  so  red-stained  and  fierce 
during  the  long  ride  after  Canby  was  now  bright 
and  gentle.  At  every  turn  she  pricked  her  small 
sharp  ears  as  if  she  expected  home  and  friends  on 
the  other  side  of  the  curve.  And  now  and  again  she 
tossed  her  head  and  glanced  back  at  the  master  for 
a  moment  and  then  whinnied  across  some  echoing  ra- 
vine. 

It  was  Mary's  way  of  showing  happiness,  and 
her  master's  acknowledgment  was  to  run  his  gloved 
left  hand  up  through  her  mane  and  with  his  ungloved 
right,  that  tanned  and  agile  hand,  pat  her  shoulder 
lightly. 

Passing  to  the  end  of  the  down-grade,  they 
reached  a  slight  upward  incline,  and  the  mare,  as 


GOLD  HAIR  123 

if  she  had  come  to  familiar  ground,  broke  into  a 
gallop,  a  matchless,  swinging  stride.  Swerving  to 
right  and  to  left  among  the  great  boulders,  like  a 
football  player  running  a  broken  field,  she  increased 
the  gallop  to  a  racing  pace. 

That  twisting  course  would  have  shaken  an  or- 
dinary horseman  to  the  toes,  but  Pierre,  swaying 
easily  in  the  saddle,  dropped  the  reins  into  the  crook 
of  his  left  arm  and  rolled  a  cigarette  in  spite  of  the 
motion  and  the  wind.  It  was  a  little  feat,  but  it 
would  have  drawn  applause  from  a  circus  crowd. 

He  spoke  to  the  mare  while  he  lighted  a  match 
and  she  dropped  to  an  easy  canter,  the  pace  which 
she  could  maintain  from  dawn  to  dark,  eating  up 
the  gray  miles  of  the  mountain  and  the  desert,  and 
it  was  then  that  Red  Pierre  heard  a  gay  voice  singing 
in  the  distance. 

His  attitude  changed  at  once.  He  caught  a 
shorter  grip  on  the  reins  and  swung  forward  a  little 
in  the  saddle,  while  his  right  hand  touched  the  butt 
of  the  revolver  in  its  holster  and  made  sure  that  it 
was  loose;  for  to  those  who  hunt  and  are  hunted 
every  human  voice  in  the  mountain-desert  is  an 
ominous  token. 

The  mare,  sensing  the  change  of  her  master 
through  that  weird  telegraphy  which  passed  down 
the  taut  bridle  reins,  held  her  head  high  and  flat- 
tened her  short  ears  against  her  neck. 

The  song  and  the  singer  drew  closer,  and  the 
vigilence  of  Pierre  ceased  as  he  heard  a  mellow 
barytone  ring  out: 


124         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"They  call  me  poor,  yet  I  am  rich 

ki  the  touch  of  her  golden  hair, 
My  heart  is.     filled  like  a  miser's  hands 

With  the  red-gold  of  her  hair. 
The  sky  I  ride  beneath  all  day 

Is  the  blue  of  her  dear  eyes; 
The  only  heaven  I  desire 

Is  the  blue  of  her  dear  eyes." 

And  here  Dick  Wilbur  rode  about  the  shoulder 
of  a  hill,  broke  off  his  song  at  the  sight  of  Pierre  le 
Rouge,  and  shouted  a  welcome.  They  came  to- 
gether and  continued  their  journey  side  by  side.  The 
half-dozen  years  had  hardly  altered  the  blond,  hand- 
some face  of  Wilbur,  and  now,  with  the  gladness  of 
his  singing  still  flushing  his  face,  he  seemed  hardly 
more  than  a  boy — younger,  in  fact,  than  Red  Pierre, 
into  whose  eyes  there  came  now  and  then  a  grave 
sternness. 

"After  hearing  that  song,"  said  Pierre  smiling, 
"I  feel  as  if  I'd  listened  to  a  portrait." 

"Right !"  said  Wilbur,  with  unabated  enthusiasm. 
"It's  the  bare  and  unadorned  truth,  Prince  Pierre. 
My  fine  Galahad,  if  you  came  within  eye-shot  of  her 
there'd  be  a  small-sized  hell  raised." 

"No.     I'm  immune  there,  you  know." 

"Nonsense.  The  beauty  of  a  really  lovely 
woman  is  like  a  fine  perfume.  It  strikes  right  to  a 
man's  heart;  there's  no  possibility  of  resistance.  I 
know.  You,  Pierre,  act  like  a  man  already  in  love 
or  a  boy  who  has  never  known  a  woman.  Which 
is  it,  Pierre?" 

The  other  made  a  familiaf  gesture  with  those 


GOLD  HAIR  125 

who  knew  him,  a  touching  of  his  left  hand  against 
his  throat  where  the  cross  lay. 

He  said:  "I  suppose  it  seems  like  that  to  you." 

"Like  what?  Dodging  me,  eh?  Well,  I  never 
press  the  point,  but  I'd  give  the  worth  of  your  horse, 
Pierre,  to  see  you  and  Mary  together." 

Red  Pierre  started,  and  then  frowned. 

"Irritates  you  a  little,  eh?  Well,  a  woman  is  like 
a  spur  to  most  men." 

He  added,  with  a  momentary  gloom:  "God 
knows,  I  bear  the  marks  of  'em." 

He  raised  his  head,  as  if  he  looked  up  in  response 
to  his  thought. 

"But  there's  a  difference  with  this  girl.  I've 
named  the  quality  of  her  before — a  fragrance,  you 
know,  that  disarms  a  man,  and  like  a  fragrance 
there's  just  a  touch  of  melancholy  about  her  and  an 
appeal  that  follows  after  you  when  she's  gone." 

Pierre  looked  to  his  friend  with  some  alarm,  for 
there  was  a  saying  among  the  followers  of  Boone 
that  a  woman  would  be  the  downfall  of  big  Dick 
Wilbur  again,  as  a  woman  had  been  his  downfall 
before.  The  difference  would  be  that  this  fall  must 
be  his  last. 

And  Wilbur  went  on:  "She's  Eastern,  Pierre,  and 
out  here  visiting  the  daughter  of  old  Barnes  who 
owns  about  a  thousand  miles  of  range,  you  know. 
How  long  will  she  be  here?  That's  the  question 
I'm  trying  to  answer  for  her.  I  met  her  riding  over 
the  hills — she  was  galloping  along  a  ridge,  and  she 
rode  her  way  right  into  my  heart.  Well,  I'm  a  fool, 


iz6        RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

of  course,  but  about  this  girl  I  can't  be  wrong.    To- 
night I'm  taking  her  to  a  masquerade." 

He  pulled  his  horse  to  a  full  stop. 

"Pierre,  you  have  to  come  with  me." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ENNUI 

PIERRE  stared  at  his  companion  with  almost  open- 
mouthed  astonishment. 

"I?    A  dance?" 

And  then  his  head  tilted  back  and  he  laughed. 

"My  good  times,  Dick,  come  out  of  the  hills  and 
the  sky-line,  and  the  gallop  of  Mary.  But  as  for 
women,  they  bore  me,  Dick." 

"Even  Jack?" 

"She's  more  man  than  woman." 

It  was  the  turn  of  Wilbur  to  laugh,  and  he  re- 
sponded uproariously  until  Pierre  frowned  and 
flushed  a  little. 

"When  I  see  you  out  here  on  your  horse  with 
your  rifle  in  the  boot  and  your  six-gun  swinging  low 
in  the  scabbard,  and  riding  the  fastest  bit  of  horse- 
flesh on  the  ranges,"  explained  Wilbur,  "I  get  to 
thinking  that  you're  pretty  much  king  of  the  moun- 
tains; but  in  certain  respects,  Pierre,  you're  a  child. 
I^a,  ha,  ha !  a  regular  infant." 

Pierre  stirred  uneasily  in  his  saddle.  A  man 
must  be  well  over  thirty  before  he  can  withstand 
ridicule. 

He  said  dryly:  "I've  an  idea  that  I  know  Jack 
about  as  well  as  the  next  man." 

"Let  it  drop,"  said  Wilbur,  sober  again,  for  he 
127 


128         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

shared  with  all  of  Boone's  crew  a  deep-rooted  un- 
willingness to  press  Red  Pierre  beyond  a  certain 
point.  "The  one  subject  I  won't  quarrel  about  is 
Jack,  God  bless  her." 

"She's  the  best  pal,"  said  Pierre  soberly,  "and 
the  nearest  to  a  man  I've  ever  met." 

"Nearest  to  a  man?"  queried  Wilbur,  and  smiled, 
but  so  furtively  that  even  the  sharp  eye  of  Red 
Pierre  did  not  perceive  the  mockery.  He  went  on  : 
"But  the  dance,  what  of  that?  It's  a  masquerade. 
There'd  be  no  fear  of  being  recognized." 

Pierre  was  silent  a  moment  more.  Then  he  said : 
"This  girl — what  did  you  call  her?" 

"Mary." 

"And  about  her  hair — I  think  you  said  it  was 
black?" 

"Golden,  Pierre." 

"Mary,  and  golden  hair,"  mused  Red  Pierre.  "I 
think  I'll  go  to  that  dance." 

"With  Jack?  She  dances  wonderfully,  you 
know." 

"Well— with  Jack." 

So  they  reached  a  tumbled  ranch-house  squeezed 
between  two  hills  so  that  it  was  sheltered  from  the 
storms  of  the  winter  but  held  all  the  heat  of  the 
summer. 

Once  it  had  been  a  goodly  building,  the  home  of 
some  cattle-king.  But  bad  times  had  come. 

A  bullet  in  a  saloon  brawl  put  an  end  to  the  cattle- 
king,  and  now  his  home  was  a  wreck  of  its  former 
glory.  The  northern  wing  shelved  down  to  the 
ground  as  if  the  building  were  kneeling  to  the  power 


ENNUI  129 

of  the  wind,  and  the  southern  portion  of  the  house, 
though  still  erect,  seemed  tottering  and  rotten 
throughout  and  holding  together  until  at  a  final 
blow  the  whole  structure  would  crumple  at  once. 

To  the  stables,  hardly  less  ruinous  than  the  big 
house,  Pierre  and  Wilbur  took  their  horses,  and  a 
series  of  whinnies  greeted  them  from  the  stalls.  To 
look  down  that  line  of  magnificent  heads  raised 
above  the  partitions  of  the  stalls  was  like  glancing 
into  the  stud  of  some  crowned  head  who  made  hunt- 
ing and  racing  his  chief  end  in  life,  for  these  were 
animals  worthy  of  the  sport  of  kings. 

They  were  chosen  each  from  among  literal  hun- 
dreds and  thousands,  and  they  were  cared  for  far 
more  tenderly  than  the  masters  cared  for  them- 
selves. There  was  a  reason  in  it,  for  upon  their 
speed  and  endurance  depended  the  life  of  the  out- 
law. Moreover,  the  policy  of  Jim  Boone  was  one 
of  actual  "long  riding." 

Here  he  had  come  to  a  pause  for  a  few  days  to 
recuperate  his  horses  and  his  men.  To-morrow, 
perhaps,  he  would  be  on  the  spur  again  and  sweep- 
ing off  to  a  distant  point  in  the  mountain  desert  to 
strike  and  be  gone  again  before  the  rangers  knew 
well  that  he  had  been  there.  Very  rarely  did  one 
settler  have  another  neighbor  at  a  distance  of  less 
than  two  hundred  miles.  It  meant  arduous  and  con- 
tinual riding,  and  a  horse  with  any  defect  was  worse 
than  useless  because  the  speed  of  the  gang  had  to 
be  the  speed  of  the  slowest  horse  in  the  lot. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  two  long  riders  had 
completed  the  grooming  of  their  horses  and  had 


130         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

gone  down  the  hill  and  into  the  house.  In  the  larg- 
est habitable  room  they  found  a  fire  fed  with  rotten 
timbers  from  the  wrecked  portion  of  the  building, 
and  scattered  through  the  room  a  sullen  and  de- 
jected group:  Mansie,  Branch,  Jim  Boone,  and 
Black  Morgan  Gandil. 

At  a  glance  it  was  easy  to  detect  their  malady;  it 
was  the  horrible  ennui  which  comes  to  men  who  are 
always  surrounded  by  one  set  of  faces.  If  a  man 
is  happily  married  he  may  bear  with  his  wife  and  his 
children  constantly  through  long  stretches  of  time, 
but  the  glamour  of  life  lies  in  the  varying  personali- 
ties which  a  man  glimpses  in  passing,  but  never 
knows. 

This  was  a  rare  crew.  Every  man  of  them  was 
marked  for  courage  and  stamina  and  wild  daring. 
Yet  even  so  in  their  passive  moments  they  hated 
each  other  with  a  hate  that  passed  the  understanding 
of  common  men. 

Through  seven  years  they  had  held  together, 
through  fair  weather  and  foul,  and  now  each  knew 
from  the  other's  expression  the  words  that  were 
about  to  be  spoken,  and  each  knew  that  the  other 
was  reading  him,  and  loathing  what  he  read. 

So  they  were  apt  to  relapse  into  long  silences  un- 
less Jack  was  with  them,  for  being  a  woman  her 
variety  was  infinite,  or  Pierre  le  Rouge,  whom  all 
except  Black  Gandil  loved  and  petted,  and  feared. 

They  were  a  battered  crowd.  Wind  and  hard 
weather  and  a  thousand  suns  had  marked  them,  and 
the  hand  of  man  had  branded  them.  Here  and  there 
was  a  touch  of  gray  in  their  hair,  and  about  the 


ENNUI  131 

mouth  of  each  were  lines  which  in  such  silent  mo- 
ments as  this  one  gave  an  expression  of  infinite  and 
wistful  yearning. 

"What's  up?  What's  wrong?"  asked  Wilbur 
from  the  door,  but  since  no  answer  was  deigned  he 
said  no  more. 

But  Pierre,  like  a  charmed  man  who  dares  to 
walk  among  lions,  strolled  easily  through  the  room, 
and  looked  into  the  face  of  big  Boone,  who  smiled 
faintly  up  to  him,  and  Black  Gandil,  who  scowled 
doubly  dark,  and  Bud  Mansie,  who  shifted  uneasily 
in  his  chair  and  then  nodded,  and  finally  to  Branch. 
He  dropped  a  hand  on  the  massive  shoulder  of  the 
blacksmith. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

Branch  let  himself  droop  back  into  his  chair. 
His  big,  dull,  colorless  eyes  stared  up  to  his  friend. 

"I  dunno,  lad.  I'm  just  weary  with  the  sort  of 
tired  that  you  can't  help  by  sleepin'.  Understand?" 

Pierre  nodded,  slowly,  because  he  sympathized. 
"And  the  trouble?" 

Branch  stared  about  as  if  searching  for  a  reason. 

"Jack's  up-stairs  sulking;  Patterson  hasn't  come 
home  yet." 

And  Black  Gandil,  who  heard  all  things,  said 
without  looking  up:  "A  man  that  saves  a  ship- 
wrecked fellow,  he  gets  bad  luck  for  thanks." 

Pierre  turned  a  considering  eye  on  him,  and  Gan- 
dil scowled  back. 

"YouVe  been  croaking  for  six  years,  Morgan, 
about  the  bad  luck  that  would  come  to  Jim  from 


i32         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

saving  me  out  of  the  snow.     It's  never  happened, 
has  it?" 

Gandil,  snarling  from  one  side  of  his  mouth,  an- 
swered: "Where's  Patterson?" 

"Am  I  responsible  if  the  blockhead  has  got  drunk 
some  place?" 

"Patterson  doesn't  get  drunk — not  that  way. 
And  he  knows  that  we  were  to  start  again  to-day." 

"There  ain't  no  doubt  of  that,"  commented 
Branch. 

"It's  the  straight  dope.  Paterson  keeps  his 
dates,"  said  Bud  Mansie. 

The  booming  bass  of  Jim  Boone  broke  in :  "Shut 
up,  the  whole  gang  of  you.  We've  had  luck  for  the 
six  years  Pierre  has  been  with  us.  Who  calls  him 
a  Jonah?" 

And  Black  Gandil  answered:  "I  do.  I've  sailed 
the  seas.  I  know  bad  luck  when  I  see  it." 

"You've  been  seeing  it  for  six  years." 

"The  worst  storms  come  on  a  voyage  that  starts 
with  fair  weather.  Patterson?  He's  gone;  he  ain't 
just  delayed;  he's  gone." 

It  was  not  the  first  of  these  gloomy  prophecies 
which  Gandil  had  made,  but  each  time  a  heavy 
gloom  broke  over  Red  Pierre.  For  when  he  summed 
up  the  good  fortune  which  the  cross  of  Father  Vic- 
tor had  brought  him,  he  found  that  he  had  gained 
a  father,  and  lost  him  at  their  first  meeting;  and 
he  had  won  money  on  that  night  of  the  gambling, 
but  it  had  cost  the  life  of  another  man  almost  at 
once.  The  horse  which  carried  him  away  from  the 
vengeance  in  Morgantown  had  died  on  the  way  and 


ENNUI  133 

he  had  been  saved  from  the  landslide,  but  the  girl 
had  perished. 

He  had  driven  McGurk  from  the  ranges,  and 
where  would  the  penalty  fall  on  those  who  were  near 
and  dear  to  him?  In  a  superstitious  horror  he  had 
asked  himself  the  question  a  thousand  times,  and 
finally  he  could  hardly  bear  to  look  into  the  ominous, 
brooding  eyes  of  Black  Gandil.  It  was  as  if  the  man 
had  a  certain  and  evil  knowledge  of  the  future. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BLACK  GANDIL 

THE  knowledge  of  the  torment  he  was  inflicting 
made  the  eye  of  Black  Gandil  bright  with  triumph. 

He  continued,  and  now  every  man  in  the  room 
was  sitting  up,  alert,  with  gloomy  eyes  fixed  upon 
Pierre:  "Patterson  is  the  first,  but  he  ain't  the  last. 
He's  just  the  start.  Who's  next?"  He  looked 
slowly  around. 

"Is  it  you,  Bud,  or  you,  Phil,  or  you,  Jim,  or 
maybe  me?" 

And  Pierre  said:  "What  makes  you  think  you 
know  that  trouble's  coming,  Morgan?" 

"Because  my  blood  runs  cold  in  me  when  I  look 
at  you." 

Red  Pierre  grew  rigid  and  straightened  in  a  way 
they  knew. 

"Damn  you,  Gandil,  I've  borne  with  you  and  your 
croaking  too  long,  d'ye  hear?  Too  long,  and  I'll 
hear  no  more  of  it,  understand?" 

"Why  not?  You'll  hear  from  me  every  time  I 
sight  you  in  the  offing.  You  c'n  lay  to  that!" 

The  others  were  tense,  ready  to  spring  for  cover, 
but  Boone  reared  up  his  great  figure. 

"Don't  answer  him,  Pierre.  You,  Gandil,  shut 
your  face  or  I'll  break  ye  in  two." 

134 


BLACK  GANDIL  135 

The  fierce  eyes  of  Pierre  le  Rouge  never  wavered 
from  his  victim,  but  he  answered:  "Keep  out  of  this. 
This  is  my  party.  I'll  tell  you  why  you'll  stop  gib- 
bering, Gandil." 

He  made  a  pace  forward  and  every  man  shrank 
a  little  away  from  him. 

"Because  the  cold  in  your  blood  is  part  hate  and 
more  fear,  Black  Gandil." 

The  eyes  of  Gandil  glared  back  for  an  instant. 
With  all  his  soul  he  yearned  for  the  courage  to  pull 
his  gun,  but  his  arm  was  numb;  he  could  not  move 
it,  and  his  eyes  wavered  and  fell. 

The  shaggy  gray  head  of  Jim  Boone  fell  likewise, 
and  he  was  murmuring  to  his  savage  old  heart: 
"The  good  days  are  over.  They'll  never  rest  till 
one  of  'em  is  dead,  and  then  the  rest  will  take  sides 
and  we'll  have  gun-plays  at  night.  Seven  years, 
and  then  to  break  up !" 

Dick  Wilbur,  as  usual,  was  the  pacifier.  He  strode 
across  the  room,  and  the  sharp  sound  of  his  heels 
on  the  creaking  floor  broke  the  tension.  He  said 
softly  to  Pierre :  "You've  raised  hell  enough.  Now 
let's  go  up  and  get  Jack  down  here  to  undo  what 
you've  just  finished.  Besides,  you've  got  to  ask  her 
for  that  dance,  eh?'1 

The  glance  of  Pierre  still  lingered  on  Gandil  as 
he  turned  and  followed  Wilbur  up  the  complaining 
stairs  to  the  one  habitable  room  in  the  second  story 
of  the  house.  It  was  set  aside  for  the  use  of  Jac- 
queline. 

At  the  door  Wilbur  said :  "Shrug  your  shoulders 
back;  you  look  as  if  you  were  going  to  jump  at  some- 


136         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

thing.  And  wipe  the  wolf-look  off  your  face.  After 
all,  Jack's  a  girl,  not  a  gun-fighter." 

Then  he  knocked  and  opened  the  door. 

She  lay  face  down  on  her  bunk,  her  head  turned 
from  them  and  toward  the  wall.  Slender  and  supple 
and  strong,  it  was  still  only  the  size  of  her  boots  and 
her  hands  that  would  make  one  look  at  her  twice 
and  then  guess  that  this  was  a  woman,  for  she  was 
dressed,  from  trousers  even  to  the  bright  bandanna 
knotted  around  her  throat,  like  any  prosperous 
range  rider. 

Now,  to  be  sure,  the  thick  coils  of  black  hair  told 
her  sex,  but  when  the  broad-brimmed  sombrero  was 
pulled  well  down  on  her  head,  when  the  cartridge- 
belt  and  the  six-gun  were  slung  about  her  waist,  and 
most  of  all  when  she  spurred  her  mount  recklessly 
across  the  hills,  no  one  could  have  suspected  that  this 
was  not  some  graceful  boy  born  and  bred  in  the 
mountain-desert,  wilful  as  a  young  mountain-lion, 
and  as  dangerous. 

"Sleepy?"  called  Wilbur. 

She  waited  a  moment  and  then  queried  with  ex- 
aggerated impudence:  "Well?" 

Ennui  unspeakable  was  in  that  drawling  mono- 
tone. 

"Brace  up;  I've  got  news  for  you." 

Her  hand  moved  and  all  the  graceful  body,  but 
it  was  only  with  a  yawn.  What  need  was  there  to 
speak?  She  wished  to  be  alone. 

"And  I've  brought  Pierre  along  to  tell  you  about 


it." 


"Ohl" 


BLACK  GANDIL  137 

And  she  sat  bolt  upright  with  shining  eyes.  In- 
stantly she  remembered  to  yawn  again,  but  her  glance 
smiled  on  them  above  her  hand. 

She  apologized.     "Awfully  sleepy,  Dick." 

But  he  was  not  deceived.  He  said:  "There's  a 
dance  down  near  the  Barnes  place,  and  Pierre  wants 
you  to  go  with  him." 

Back  tilted  her  head,  and  her  throat  stirred  as  if 
she  were  singing. 

"Pierre!     A  dance?" 

He  explained:  "Dick's  lost  his  head  over  a  girl 
with  yellow  hair,  and  he  wants  me  to  go  down  and 
see  her.  He  thought  you  might  want  to  go  along." 

Her  face  changed  like  the  moon  when  a  cloud 
blows  across  it.  Before  she  answered  she  slipped 
down  on  the  bunk  again,  pillowed  her  head  leisurely 
on  her  arm,  and  answered  with  another  slow,  in- 
solent yawn :  "Thanks !  I'm  staying  home  to-night.1' 

Wilbur  glared  his  rage  covertly  at  Pierre,  but  the 
latter  was  blandly  unconscious  that  he  had  made 
any  faux  pas. 

He  said  carelessly:  "Too  bad.  It  might  be  in- 
teresting, Jack?" 

At  his  voice  she  looked  up— a  sharp  and  graceful 
toss  of  the  head. 

"What?" 

"The  girl  with  the  yellow  hair." 

"Then  go  ahead  and  see  her.  I  won't  keep  you. 
You  don't  mind  if  I  go  on  sleeping?  Sit  down  and 
be  at  home." 

With  this  she  calmly  turned  her  back  again  and 
seemed  thoroughly  disposed  to  carry  out  her  word. 


138         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

Red  Pierre  flushed  a  little,  watching  her,  and  he 
spoke  his  anger  outright :  "You're  acting  like  a  sulky 
kid,  Jack,  not  like  a  man." 

It  was  a  habit  of  his  to  forget  that  she  was  a 
woman.  Without  turning  her  head  she  answered: 
"Do  you  want  to  know  why?" 

"You're  like  a  cat  showing  your  claws.  Go  on  I 
Tell  me  what  the  reason  is." 

"Because  I  get  tired  of  you." 

In  all  his  life  he  had  never  been  so  scorned.  He 
did  not  see  the  covert  grin  of  Wilbur  in  the  back- 
ground. He  blurted :  "Tired  ?" 

"Awfully.  You  don't  mind  me  being  frank,  do 
you,  Pierre?" 

He  could  only  stammer:  "Sometimes  I  wish  to 
God  you  were  a  man,  Jack!" 

"You  don't  often  remember  that  I'm  a  woman." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

She  was  silent,  but  there  was  a  perceptible  tremor 
in  the  graceful  body. 

He  repeated:  "Do  you  mean  that  I'm  rude  or 
rough  with  you,  Jacqueline?" 

Still  the  silence,  but  Wilbur  was  grinning  broader 
than  ever.  "Answer  me !" 

She  started  up  and  faced  him,  her  face  convulsed 
with  rage. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say?  Yes,  you  are 
rude — I  hate  you  and  your  lot.  Go  away  from  me ; 
I  don't  want  you ;  I  hate  you  all." 

And  she  would  have  said  more,  but  furious  sobs 
swelled  her  throat  and  she  could  not  speak,  but 
dropped,  face  down,  on  the  bunk  and  gripped  the 


BLACK  GANDIL  139 

blankets  in  each  hard-set  hand.  Over  her  Pierre 
leaned,  utterly  bewildered,  found  nothing  that  he 
could  say,  and  then  turned  and  strode,  frowning, 
from  the  room.  Wilbur  hastened  after  him  and 
caught  him  just  as  the  door  was  closing. 

"Come  back,"  he  pleaded.  "This  is  the  best 
game  I've  ever  seen.  Come  back,  Pierre!  You've 
made  a  wonderful  start." 

Pierre  le  Rouge  shook  off  the  detaining  hand  and 
glared  up  at  Wilbur. 

"Don't  try  irony,  Dick.  I  feel  like  murder. 
Think  of  it !  All  this  time  she's  been  hating  me ;  and 
now  it's  making  her  weep;  think  of  it — Jack — 
weeping!" 

"Why,  you're  a  child,  Pierre.  Go  back  and  take 
her  in  your  arms  and  tell  her  you're  going  to  make 
her  go  to  the  dance." 

"Take  her  in  my  arms?  She'd  stab  me,  there's 
that  much  of  the  devil  in  her.  Don't  grin  at  me 
and  keep  chuckling  like  an  utter  ass.  What's  up, 
Dick?" 

"Don't  you  see?  No,  you  don't,  but  it's  so  plain 
that  a  baby  of  three  years  could  understand.  She's 
in  love  with  you." 

"With  me?" 

"With  Red  Pierre." 

"You  can't  make  a  joke  out  of  Jack  with  me. 
You  ought  to  know  that." 

'Pierre,  I'd  as  soon  make  a  joke  out  of  a  wild- 


cat." 


"Grinning  still?    Wilbur,  I'm  taking  more  from 
you  than  I  would  from  any  man  on  the  ranges." 


140         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"I  know  you  are,  and  that's  why  I'm  stringing 
this  out  because  I'm  going  to  have  a  laugh — ha,  ha, 
ha! — the  rest  of  my  life — ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! — when- 
ever I  think  of  this — ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  I" 

The  burst  of  merriment  left  him  speechless,  and 
Pierre,  glowering,  his  right  hand  twitching  danger- 
ously close  to  that  holster  at  his  hip.  He  sobered, 
and  said:  "Go  in  and  talk  to  her  and  prove  that 
I'm  right." 

"Ask  Jack  if  she  loves  me?  Why,  I'd  as  soon 
ask  any  man  the  same  question." 

The  big  long  rider  was  instantly  curious. 

"Has  she  never  appealed  to  you  as  a  woman, 
Pierre?" 

"How  could  she?  I've  watched  her  ride;  I've 
watched  her  use  her  gun;  I've  slept  rolled  in  the 
same  blankets  with  her,  back  to  back;  I've  walked 
and  talked  and  traveled  with  her  as  if  she  were  my 
kid  brother." 

Wilbur  nodded,  as  if  the  miracle  were  being 
slowly  unfolded  before  his  eyes. 

"And  you've  never  noticed  anything  different 
about  her?  Never  watched  a  little  lift  and  grace 
in  her  walk  that  no  man  could  ever  have;  never 
heard  her  laugh  in  a  voice  that  no  man  could  ever 
imitate;  never  seen  her  color  change  just  because 
you,  Pierre,  came  near  or  went  far  away  from  her?" 

"Because  of  me?"  asked  the  bewildered  Pierre. 

"You  fool,  you!  Why,  lad,  I've  been  kept 
amused  by  you  two  for  a  whole  evening,  watching 
her  play  for  your  attention,  saving  her  best  smiles 
for  you,  keeping  her  best  attitudes  for  you,  and  let- 


BLACK  GANDIL  141 

ting  all  the  richness  of  her  voice  go  out  for — a 
block — a  stone.  Gad,  the  thing  still  doesn't  seem 
possible  I  Pierre,  one  instant  of  that  girl  would  give 
romance  to  a  man's  whole  life." 

"This  girl?    This  Jack  of  ours?" 

uHe  hasn't  seen  it!  Why,  if  I  hadn't  seen  years 
ago  that  she  had  tied  her  hands  and  turned  her  heart 
over  to  you,  I'd  have  been  down  on  my  knees  to  her 
a  thousand  times,  begging  her  for  a  smile,  a  shadow 
of  a  hope." 

"If  I  didn't  know  you,  Dick,  I'd  say  that  you  were 
partly  drunk  and  partly  a  fool." 

"Here's  a  hundred — a  cold  hundred  that  I'm 
right.  I'll  make  it  a  thousand,  if  you  dare." 

"Dare  what?" 

"Ask  her  to  marry  you." 

"Marry— me?" 

"Damn  it  all — well,  then — whatever  you  like. 
But  I  say  that  if  you  go  back  into  that  room  and  sit 
still  and  merely  look  at  her,  she'll  be  in  your  arms 
within  five  minutes." 

"I  hate  to  take  charity,  but  a  bet  is  a  bet.  That 
hundred  is  in  my  pocket  already.  It's  a  go  I" 

They  shook  hands. 

"But  what  will  be  your  proof,  Dick,  whether  I 
win  or  lose?" 

"Your  face,  blockhead,  when  you  come  out  of 
the  room." 

Upon  this  Pierre  pondered  a  moment,  and  then 
turned  toward  the  door.  He  set  his  hand  on  the 
knob,  faltered,  and  finally  set  his  teeth  and  entered 
the  room. 


J 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FIVE  MINUTES'  SILENCE 

SHE  lay  as  he  had  left  her,  except  that  her  face 
was  now  pillowed  in  her  arms,  and  the  long  sobs 
kept  her  body  quivering.  Awe  and  curiosity  swept 
over  Pierre,  looking  down  at  her,  but  chiefly  a  puz- 
zled grief  such  as  a  strong  man  feels  when  a  friend 
is  in  trouble.  He  came  closer  and  laid  a  hand  on 
her  shoulder. 

"Jack!" 

She  turned  far  enough  to  strike  his  hand  away 
and  instantly  rescumed  her  former  position,  though 
the  sobs  were  softer.  This  childish  anger  irritated 
him.  He  was  about  to  storm  out  of  the  room  when 
the  thought  of  the  hundred  dollars  stopped  him. 
It  was  not  that  he  hoped  to  win  the  money,  for  dol- 
lars rolled  easily  into  his  hands  and  out  again,  but 
the  bet  had  been  made,  and  it  was  his  pride  that  he 
would  play  out  his  part  of  it.  It  seemed  unsports- 
manlike to  leave  without  some  effort. 

The  effort  which  he  finally  made  was  that  sug- 
gested by  Wilbur.  He  folded  his  arms  and  stood 
silent,  waiting,  and  ready  to  judge  the  time  as  nearly 
as  he  could  until  the  five  minutes  should  have 
elapsed.  He  was  so  busy  computing  the  minutes 
that  it  was  with  a  start  that  he  noticed  some  time 

142 


, 


FIVE  MINUTES'  SILENCE          143 

later  that  the  weeping  had  ceased.  She  lay  quiet 
Her  hand  was  dabbing  furtively  at  her  face  for  a 
purpose  which  Pierre  could  not  surmise. 

At  last  a  broken  voice  murmured:  "Pierre!" 

He  would  not  speak,  but  something  in  the  voice 
made  his  anger  go.  After  a  little  it  came,  and  louder 
this  time:  "Pierre?" 

He  did  not  stir. 

She  whirled  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bunk,  cry- 
ing: "Pierre!"  with  a  note  of  fright.  Then  she 
flushed  richly. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  were  gone.  I  thought — 
Pierre — I  was  afraid — I  mean  I  hoped — " 

She  could  not  go  on. 

And  still  he  persisted  in  that  silence,  his  arms 
folded,  the  keen  blue  eyes  considering  her  as  if  from 
a  great  distance. 

She  explained:  "I  was  afraid — Pierre!  Why 
don't  you  speak?  Tell  me,  are  you  angry?" 

And  she  sprang  up  and  made  a  pace  toward  him. 
She  had  never  seemed  so  little  manlike,  so  wholly 
womanly.  For  the  thick  coils  of  hair  were  loosed 
on  her  head,  and  the  black  hair  framed  a  face 
stained,  flushed,  with  eyes  that  were  like  a  great 
black,  bottomless  well  of  sorrow  and  wistfulness. 
And  the  hand  which  stretched  toward  him,  palm  up, 
was  a  symbol  of  everything  new  and  strange  that 
he  found  in  her. 

He  had  seen  it  balled  to  a  small,  angry  fist,  brown 
and  dangerous;  he  had  seen  it  gripping  the  butt  of 
a  revolver,  ready  for  the  draw;  he  had  seen  it  tug- 
ging at  the  reins  and  holding  a  racing  horse  in  check 


i44         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

with  an  ease  which  a  man  would  envy;  but  never 
before  had  he  seen  it  turned  palm  up,  to  his  knowl- 
edge; and  now,  because  he  could  not  speak  to  her, 
according  to  his  plan,  he  studied  her  thoroughly  for 
the  first  time. 

Slender  and  marvelously  made  was  that  hand. 
The  whole  woman  was  in  it,  finely  fashioned,  deli- 
cate, made  for  beauty,  not  for  use.  It  was  all  he 
could  do  to  keep  from  exclaiming. 

She  made  a  quick  step  toward  him,  eager,  un- 
certain : 

"Pierre,  I  thought  you  had  left  me — that  you 
were  gone,  and  angry." 

The  hearts  of  men  are  tinder;  something  caught 
on  fire  in  Pierre,  but  still  he  would  say  nothing.  He 
was  beginning  to  feel  t  cruel  pleasure  in  his  victory, 
but  it  was  not  without  a  deep  sense  of  danger. 

She  had  laid  aside  her  six-gun,  but  she  had  not 
abandoned  it  She  had  laid  aside  her  anger,  but  she 
could  resume  it  again  as  swiftly  ts  she  could  take 
up  her  revolver. 

He  exulted  in  the  touch  of  victory,  but  it  was  as 
a  man  who  rides  a  horse  that  paces  docilely  beneath 
him  but  may  plunge  into  a  fury  of  bucking  in  a  mo- 
ment. She  was  closer — very  close,  and  somehow 
he  knew  that  at  his  pleasure  he  could  make  her  smile 
or  tremble  by  speaking.  Yet  he  would  not  speak. 
The  five  minutes  were  not  yet  up. 

She  cried  with  a  little  burst  of  rage :  "Pierre,  you 
are  making  a  game  of  me  I" 

But  seeing  that  he  did  not  change  she  altered 
swiftly  and  caught  his  hand  in  both  of  hers.  She 


FIVE  MINUTES'  SILENCE          145 

spoke  the  name  which  she  always  used  when  she 
was  greatly  moved. 

"Ah,  Pierre  le  Rouge,  what  have  I  done?" 

His  silence  tempted  her  on  like  the  smile  of  the 
sphinx. 

And  suddenly  she  was  inside  his  arms,  though 
how  she  separated  them  he  could  not  tell,  and  cry- 
ing: "Pierre,  I  am  unhappy.  Help  me,  Pierre!" 

It  was  true,  then,  and  Wilbur  had  won  his  bet. 
But  how  could  it  have  happened?  He  took  the  arms 
that  encircled  his  neck  and  brought  them  slowly 
down,  and  watched  her  curiously.  Something  was 
expected  of  him,  but  what  it  was  he  could  not  tell, 
for  women  were  as  strange  to  him  as  the  wild  sea 
is  strange  to  the  Arab. 

He  hunted  his  mind,  and  then :  "One  of  the  boys 
has  angered  you,  Jack?" 

And  she  said,  because  she  could  think  of  no  way 
to  cover  the  confusion  which  came  to  her  after  the 
outbreak:  "Yes." 

He  dropped  her  arms  and  strode  a  pace  or  two 
up  and  down  the  room. 

"Gandil?" 

"N-no!" 

"You're  lying.    It  was  Gandil." 

And  he  made  straight  for  the  door. 

She  ran  after  him  and  flung  herself  between  him 
and  the  door.  Clearly,  as  if  it  were  a  painted  pic- 
ture, she  saw  him  facing  Gandil — saw  their  hands 
leap  for  the  guns — saw  Gandil  pitch  face  forward 
on  the  floor — writhe  all  his  limbs — and  then  lie  still. 
"Pierre— for  God's  sake!" 


146         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

Her  terror  convinced  him  partially,  and  the  furor 
went  back  from  his  eyes  as  a  light  goes  back  in  a 
long,  dark  hall. 

"On  your  honor,  Jack,  it's  not  Gandil?" 

"On  my  honor." 

"But  some  one  has  broken  you  up." 

"No,  I—" 

"Don't  lie.  Why,  even  while  you  look  at  me  your 
color  changes.  You're  pale  one  minute  and  red  the 
next.  Some  one  has  crossed  you,  Jack.  And  who- 
ever crosses  you  crosses  me,  by  God!  Out  with  his 
name!  Is  it  Branch?" 

"No." 

"Then  it's  big  Patterson." 

"No." 

"I  have  it!  Mansie!  There's  always  something 
of  the  sneak  about  him  that  I  never  liked." 

"No,  no!" 

"It  is !  He  came  up  to  you  and  whispered  some 
dog's  remark  for  you  to  hear.  Damn  him — I  never 
trusted  Mansie!" 

He  pushed  her  away  from  the  door  and  set  his 
hand  on  the  knob,  but  he  could  not  keep  her  back. 
She  was  upon  him  again  and  twisted  between  him 
and  the  entrance  to  the  room. 

"Pierre,  upon  my  honor,  it  was  none  of  these 


men." 


He  could  not  help  but  believe. 
"Only  Wilbur  is  left.    Jack,  I'd  rather  raise  my 
hand  against  myself  than  to  harm  Dick,  but  if — " 
"I'll  never  tell  you  who  it  was.     Don't  you  see? 


FIVE  MINUTES'  SILENCE          147 

It  would  be  like  a  murder  in  cold  blood  if  I  were 
to  send  you  after  him." 

"But  he's  here — he's  one  of  us,  this  man  who's 
bothered  you." 

She  could  not  help  but  answer:  "Yes." 

He  scowled  down  at  the  floor. 

"You  would  never  be  able  to  guess  who  it  is. 
Give  it  up.  After  all — I  can  live  through  it — I 
guess." 

"It's  something  that  has  saddened  you.  Do  you 
know,  we've  been  so  much  together  that  I  can  al- 
most read  your  mind,  in  a  way.  Why  are  you 
smiling?" 

"I  wish  that  you  could  read  it — Pierre — at 
times." 

He  took  her  face  between  his  hands  and  frowned 
down  into  her  eyes.  At  his  touch  she  grew  very  pale 
and  trembled  as  if  a  wind  were  striking  against  her. 

"You  see,  you've  been  so  near  to  me,  and  so  dear 
to  me  all  these  years,  Jack,  that  you're  like  a  sister, 
almost." 

"And  you  to  me,  Pierre." 

"But  different — nearer  even  than  a  sister." 

"So  much  nearer!" 

"It's  queer,  isn't  it?  But  you  can't  forget  this 
trouble  you've  had.  The  tears  come  up  in  your  eyes 
again.  Tell  me  his  name,  Jack,  and  the  dog — " 

She  said:  "Only  let  me  go.  Take  your  hands 
away,  Pierre." 

He  obeyed  her,  deeply  worried,  and  she  stood 
for  a  moment  with  a  hand  pressed  over  her  eyes, 
swaying.  He  had  never  seen  her  like  this;  he  was 


i4S         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

Hkc  a  pilot  striving  to  steer  his  ship  through  an  un- 
fathomable fog.  Following  what  had  become  an 
instinct  with  him,  he  raised  his  left  hand  and  touched 
the  crosa  beneath  his  throat.  And  inspiration  came 
to  him. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PARTNERS 

"WHETHER  you  want  to  or  not,  Jack,  we'll  go  <:• 
this  dance  to-night." 

Jacqueline's  hand  fell  away  from  her  eye§.  She 
seemed  suddenly  glad  again. 

"Do  you  want  to  take  me,  Pierre?" 

He  explained:  "Of  course.  Besides,  we  have  to 
keep  an  eye  on  Wilbur.  This  girl  with  the  yellow 
hair—" 

She  had  altered  swiftly  again.  There  was  no  un- 
derstanding her  or  following  her  moods  this  day. 
He  decided  to  disregard  them,  as  he  had  often  done 
before. 

"Black  Gandil  swears  that  I'm  bringing  bad  luck 
to  the  boys  at  last.  Patterson  has  disappeared;  Wil- 
bur has  lost  his  head  about  a  girl.  We've  got  to 
save  Dick." 

He  knew  that  she  was  fond  of  Wilbur,  but  she 
showed  no  enthusiasm  now. 

"Let  him  go  his  own  way.  He's  big  enough  to 
take  care  of  himself." 

"But  it's  common  talk,  Jack,  that  the  end  of  Wil- 
bur will  come  through  a  woman.  It  was  that  that 
sent  him  on  the  long  trail,  you  know.  And  thi*  girl 
with  the  yellow  hair — " 

H9 


150         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"Why  do  you  harp  on  her?" 

"Harp  on  her?" 

"Every  other  word — nothing  but  yellow  hair. 
I'm  sick  of  it.  I  know  the  kind — faded  corn  color — 
dyed,  probably.  Pierre,  you  are  all  blind,  and  you 
most  of  all." 

This  being  obviously  childish,  Pierre  brushed  the 
consideration  of  it  from  his  mind. 

"And  for  clothes,  Jack?" 

They  were  both  dumb.  It  had  been  years  since 
she  had  worn  the  clothes  of  a  woman.  She  had 
danced  with  the  men  of  her  father's  gang  many  a 
time  while  some  one  whistled  or  played  on  a  mouth- 
organ,  and  there  was  the  time  they  rode  into  Beulah 
Ferry  and  held  up  the  dance-hall,  and  Jim  Boone 
and  Mansie  lined  up  the  crowd  with  their  hands  held 
high  above  their  heads  while  the  sweating  musicians 
played  fast  and  furious  and  Jack  and  Pierre  danced 
down  the  center  of  the  hall. 

She  had  danced  many  a  time,  but  never  in  the 
clothes  of  a  woman;  so  they  stared,  mutely  puzzled. 

A  thought  came  first  to  Jacqueline.  It  obliterated 
even  the  memory  of  the  yellow-haired  girl  and  set 
her  eyes  dancing.  She  stepped  close  and  murmured 
her  suggestion  in  -the  ear  of  Pierre.  Whatever  it 
was,  it  made  his  jaw  set  hard  and  brought  grave 
lines  into  his  face. 

She  stepped  back,  asking:  "Well?" 

"We'll  do  it.  What  a  little  demon  you  are,  Jack!" 

"Then  we'll  have  to  start  now.  There's  barely 
time. 

They  ran  from  the  room  together,  and  as  they 


PARTNERS  151 

passed  through  the  room  below  Wilbur  called  after 
them:  "The  dance?" 

"Yes." 

"Wait  and  go  with  me." 

"We  ride  in  a  roundabout  way." 

They  were  through  the  door  as  Pierre  called  back, 
and  a  moment  later  the  hoofs  of  their  horses  scat- 
tered the  gravel  down  the  hillside.  Jacqueline  rode 
a  black  stallion  sired  by  her  father's  mighty  Thun- 
der, who  had  grown  old  but  still  could  do  the  work 
of  three  ordinary  horses  in  carrying  the  great  bulk 
of  his  master.  The  son  of  Thunder  was  little  like 
his  sire,  but  a  slender-limbed  racer,  graceful,  nerv- 
ous, eager.  A  clumsy  rider  would  have  ruined  the 
horse  in  a  single  day's  hard  work  among  the  trails 
of  the  mountain-desert,  but  Jacqueline,  fairly  read- 
ing the  mind  of  the  black,  nursed  his  strength  when 
it  was  needed  and  let  him  run  free  and  swift  when 
the  ground  before  him  was  level. 

Now  she  picked  her  course  dexterously  down  the 
hillside  with  the  cream-colored  mare  of  Pierre  fol- 
lowing half  a  length  behind. 

After  the  first  down-pitch  of  ground  was  covered 
they  passed  into  difficult  terrain,  and  for  half  an 
hour  went  at  a  jog  trot,  winding  in  and  out  among 
the  rocks,  climbing  steadily  up  and  up  through  the 
hills. 

Here  the  ground  opened  up  again,  and  they  roved 
on  at  a  free  gallop,  the  black  always  half  a  length 
in  front.  In  all  the  length  of  the  mountain-desert 
there  was  no  other  picture  which  could  compare  with 


152         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

these  two  in  their  youth  and  their  pride  and  their 
fearlessness. 

They  rode  alert,  high-headed  like  their  horses, 
and  there  was  about  them  a  suggestion  of  the  pa- 
tience which  carries  a  man  endlessly  after  one  pur- 
pose, and  a  suggestion  of  the  eagerness,  too,  which 
makes  him  strike  swift  and  hard  and  surely  when 
the  time  for  action  comes. 

Along  the  ridge  of  a  crest,  an  almost  level  stretch 
of  a  mile  or  more,  Jack  eased  the  grip  on  the  reins, 
and  the  black  responded  with  a  sudden  lengthening 
of  stride  and  lowered  his  head  with  ears  pressed 
back  flat  while  he  fairly  flew  over  the  ground. 

Nothing  could  match  that  speed.  The  strong 
mare  fell  to  the  rear,  fighting  gamely,  but  beaten 
by  that  effort  of  the  stallion. 

Jack  swerved  in  the  saddle  and  looked  back, 
laughing  her  triumph.  Pierre  smiled  grimly  in  re- 
sponse and  leaned  forward,  shifting  his  weight  more 
over  the  withers  of  Mary.  He  spoke  to  her,  and 
one  of  her  pricking  ears  fell  back  as  if  to  listen  to 
his  voice.  He  spoke  again  and  the  other  ear  fell 
back,  her  neck  straightened,  she  gave  her  whole 
heart  to  her  work. 

First  she  held  the  stallion  even,  then  she  began  to 
gain.  That  was  the  meaning  of  those  round,  strong 
hips,  and  the  breadth  of  the  chest.  She  needed  a 
half-mile  of  running  to  warm  her  to  her  work,  and 
now  the  black  came  back  to  her  with  every  leap. 

The  thunder  of  the  approaching  hoofs  warned 
the  girl.  One  more  glance  she  cast  in  apprehension 
OTCT  her  shoulder,  and  then  brought  her  spurs  into 


PARTNERS  153 

play  again  and  again.  Still  the  rush  of  hoofs  behind 
her  grew  louder  and  louder,  and  now  there  was  a 
panting  at  her  side  and  the  head  of  cream-colored 
Mary  drew  up  and  past. 

She  gave  up  the  battle  with  a  little  shout  of  anger 
and  slowed  up  her  mount  with  a  sharp  pull  on  the 
reins.  It  needed  only  a  word  from  Pierre  and  his 
mare  drew  down  to  a  hand-gallop,  twisting  her  head 
a  little  toward  the  black  as  if  she  called  for  some 
recognition  of  her  superiority. 

"It's  always  this  way,"  cried  Jack,  and  jerked  at 
the  reins  with  a  childish  impotence  of  anger.  "I 
beat  you  for  the  first  quarter  of  a  mile  and  then  this 
fool  of  a  horse — Pm  going  to  give  him  away." 

"The  black,"  said  Pierre,  assuming  an  air  of 
quiet  and  superior  knowing  which  always  aggravated 
her  most,  "is  a  good  second-rate  cayuse  when  some 
one  who  knows  horses  is  in  the  saddle.  I'd  give 
you  fifty  for  him  on  the  strength  of  his  looks  and 
keep  him  for  a  decoration." 

She  could  only  glare  her  speechless  rage  for  a 
moment.  Then  she  changed  swiftly  and  threw  out 
her  hands  in  a  little  gesture  >of  surrender. 

"After  all,  what  difference  does  it  make?  Your 
Mary  can  beat  him  in  a  long  run  or  a  short  one,  but 
it's  your  horse,  Pierre,  and  that  takes  the  sting  away. 
If  it  were  any  one  else's  I'd — well,  I'd  shoot  either 
the  horse  or  the  rider.  But  my  partner's  horse  is 
my  horse,  you  know." 

She  broke  into  song,  the  clear  voice  flinging  back 
from  the  mountainside  to  the  canon  that  dropped 
on  their  right: 


154         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"My  partner's  horse   is  my  horse,   bunky — 
From  his  fetlock  to  the  bucking-strap, 
From  his  flying  hoofs  to  the  saddle-flap— 

My  oartner's  horse  is  my  horse,  bunky. 

"My  partner's  gun  is  my  gun,  bunky— 

From  the  chamber  to  the  trigger-guard; 

And  the  butt  like  a  friend's  hand  gripping  hard — 
My  partner's  gun  is  my  gun,  bunky. 

"My  partner's  heart  is  my  heart,  bunky — 
And  like  matched  horses  galloping  well, 
They  will  beat  together  through  heaven  and  bell— 

My  partner's  heart  is  my  heart,  bunky." 

He  swerved  his  mare  sharply  to  the  left  and  took 
her  hand  with  a  strong  grip. 

"Jack,  of  all  the  men  I've  ever  known,  I'd  rather 
walk  with  you,  I'd  rather  talk  with  you,  I'd  rather 
ride  with  you,  I'd  rather  fight  for  you.  Jack,  you're 
the  best  pal  that  ever  wore  spurs,  and  the  gamest 
sport." 

"Of  all  the  men  you  ever  knew,"  she  said,  "I  sup- 
pose that  I  am." 

He  did  not  hear  the  low  voice,  for  he  was  look- 
ing out  over  the  canon  and  whistling  the  refrain  of 
her  song  happily.  A  few  moments  later  they  swung 
out  onto  the  very  crest  of  the  range. 

On  all  sides  the  hills  dropped  away  through  the 
gloom  of  the  evening,  brown  near  by,  but  falling 
off  through  a  faint  blue  haze  and  growing  blue-black 
with  the  distance.  A  sharp  wind,  chill  with  the 
coming  of  night,  cut  at  them.  Not  a  hundred  feet 
overhead  shot  a  low-winging  hawk  back  from  his 


PARTNERS  155 

day's  hunting  and  rising  only  high  enough  to  clear 
the  range  and  then  plunge  down  toward  his  nest. 

Like  the  hawks  they  peered  down  from  their 
point  of  vantage  into  the  profound  gloom  of  the 
valley  below.  They  shaded  their  eyes  and  studied 
it  with  a  singular  interest  for  long  moments,  patient, 
silent,  quiet  as  the  hawk  when  he  steadies  himself 
in  leisurely  circles  high  in  the  heart  of  heaven  and 
fixes  his  eyes  surely  on  his  prey  far,  far  below — then 
folds  his  wings  and  shoots  suddenly  down,  a  veritable 
bolt  from  the  blue. 

So  these  two  marauders  stared  until  she  raised  a 
hand  slowly  and  then  pointed  down.  He  followed 
the  direction  she  indicated,  and  there,  through  the 
haze  of  the  evening,  he  made  out  a  glimmer  of  lights. 

He  said  sharply:  "I  know  the  place,  but  we'll 
have  a  devil  of  a  ride  to  get  there." 

And  like  the  swooping  hawk  they  started  down 
the  slope.  It  was  precipitous  in  many  places,  but 
Pierre  kept  almost  at  a  gallop,  making  the  mare  take 
the  slopes  often  crouched  back  on  her  haunches  with 
forefeet  braced  forward,  and  sliding  many  yards 
at  a  time. 

In  between  the  boulders  he  darted,  twisting  here 
and  there,  and  always  erect  and  jaunty  in  the  saddle, 
swaying  easily  with  every  movement  of  Mary.  Not 
far  behind  him  came  the  girl.  Fine  rider  that  she 
was,  she  could  not  hope  to  compete  with  such  match- 
less horsemanship  where  man  and  horse  were  only 
one  piece  of  strong  brawn  and  muscle,  one  daring 
spirit.  Many  a  time  the  chances  seemed  too  desper- 
ate to  her,  but  she  followed  blindly  where  he  led, 


1 56         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

setting  her  teeth  at  each  succeeding  venture,  and 
coming  out  safe  every  time,  until  they  swung  out 
at  last  through  a  screen  of  brush  and  onto  the  level 
floor  of  the  valley. 


CHAPTER  XX 

FULL  DRESS 

IN  the  heart  of  that  valley  two  roads  crossed. 
Many  a  year  before  a  man  with  some  imagination 
and  illimitable  faith  was  moved  by  the  crossing  of 
those  roads  to  build  a  general  merchandise  store. 

Time  justified  his  faith,  in  a  small  way,  and  now 
McGuire's  store  was  famed  for  leagues  and  leagues 
about,  for  he  dared  to  take  chances  with  all  manner 
of  novelties,  and  the  curious,  when  their  pocketbooks 
were  full,  went  to  McGuire's  to  find  inspiration. 

Business  was  dull  this  night,  however;  there  was 
not  a  single  patron  at  the  bar,  and  the  store  itself 
was  empty,  so  he  went  to  put  out  the  big  gasoline 
lamp  which  hung  from  the  ceiling  in  the  center  of 
the  room,  and  was  on  the  ladder,  reaching  high 
above  his  head,  when  a  singular  chill  caught  him  in 
the  center  of  his  plump  back  and  radiated  from  that 
spot  in  all  directions,  freezing  his  blood.  He  swal- 
lowed the  lump  in  his  throat  and  with  his  arms  still 
stretched  toward  the  lamp  he  turned  his  head  and 
glanced  behind. 

Two  men  stood  watching  him  from  a  position 
just  inside  the  door.  How  they  had  come  there  he 
could  never  guess,  for  the  floor  creaked  at  the  light- 
est step.  Nevertheless,  these  fantoms  had  appeared 

157 


15*         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

silently,  and  now  they  must  be  dealt  with.  He 
turned  on  the  ladder  to  face  them,  and  still  he  kept 
the  arms  automatically  above  his  head  while  he  de- 
scended to  the  floor. 

However,  on  a  closer  examination,  these  two  did 
not  seem  particularly  formidable.  They  were  both 
quite  young,  one  with  dark-red  hair  and  a  some- 
what overbright  eye;  the  other  was  hardly  more 
than  a  boy,  very  slender,  delicately  made,  the  sort 
of  handsome  young  scoundrel  whom  women  cannot 
resist. 

Having  made  these  observations  McGuire  ven- 
tured to  lower  his  arms  by  jerks;  nothing  happened; 
he  was  safe.  So  he  vented  his  feelings  by  scowling 
on  the  strangers. 

"Well,"  he  snapped,  "what's  up?  Too  late  for 
business.  I'm  closin'  up." 

The  two  quite  disregarded  him.  Their  eyes  were 
wandering  calmly  about  the  place,  and  now  they 
rested  on  the  pride  of  McGuire's  store.  The  figure 
of  a  man  in  evening  clothes,  complete  from  shoes  to 
gloves  and  silk  hat,  stood  beside  a  girl  of  wax  love- 
liness. She  wore  a  low-cut  gown  of  dark  green,  and 
over  her  shimmering,  cold  white  shoulders  was 
draped  a  scarf  of  dull  gold.  Above,  a  sign  said: 
"You  only  get  married  once;  why  don't  you  do  it 
up  right?" 

"That,"  said  the  taller  stranger,  "ought  to  do 
very  nicely  for  us,  eh?" 

And  the  younger  replied  in  a  curiously  light,  pleas- 
ant voice :  "Just  what  we  want.  But  how'll  I  get 
away  with  all  that  fluffy  stuff,  eh?" 


FULL  DRESS  159 

The  elder  explained :  "We're  going  to  a  bit  of  a 
dance  and  we'll  take  those  evening  clothes." 

The  heart  of  McGuire  beat  faster  and  his  little 
eyes  took  in  the  strangers  again  from  head  to  foot. 

"They  ain't  for  sale,"  he  said.  "They's  just  sam- 
ples. But  right  over  here — " 

"This  isn't  a  question  of  selling,"  said  the  red- 
headed man.  "We've  come  to  accept  a  little  dona- 
tion, McGuire." 

The  storekeeper  grew  purple  and  white  in  patches. 
Still  there  was  no  show  of  violence,  no  display  of 
guns;  he  moved  his  hand  toward  his  own  weapon, 
and  still  the  strangers  merely  smiled  quietly  on  him. 
He  decided  that  he  had  misunderstood,  and  went 
on:  "Over  here  I  got  a  line  of  goods  that  you'll 
like.  Just  step  up  and — " 

The  younger  man,  frowning  now,  replied:  "We 
don't  want  to  see  any  more  of  your  junk.  The 
clothes  on  the  models  suit  us  all  right.  Slip  Jem  off, 
McGuire." 

"But — "  began  McGuire  and  then  stopped. 

His  first  suspicion  returned  with  redoubled  force; 
above  all,  that  head  of  dark  red  hair  made  him 
thoughtful.  He  finished  hoarsely:  "What  the  hell's 
this?" 

"Why,"  smiled  the  taller  man,  "youVe  never  done 
much  in  the  interests  of  charity,  and  now's  a  good 
time  for  you  to  start.  Hurry  up,  McGuire;  we're 
late  already!" 

There  was  a  snarl  from  the  storekeeper,  and  he 
went  for  his  gun,  but  something  in  the  peculiarly 
steady  eyes  of  the  two  made  him  stop  with  his  fingers 


i6o         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

frozen  hard  around  the  butt.  A  mighty  sickness 
overwhelmed  McGuire,  and  before  his  eyes  there 
swam  a  dark  mist. 

He  whispered:  "You're  Red  Pierre?" 

"The  clothes,1*  repeated  Pierre  sternly,  uon  the 
jump,  McGuire." 

And  with  a  jump  McGuire  obeyed.  His  hands 
trembled  so  that  he  could  hardly  remove  the  scarf 
from  the  shoulders  of  the  model,  but  afterward  fear 
made  his  fingers  supple.  He  lifted  up  the  green 
gown;  white,  filmy  clothes  showed  underneath. 

There  came  a  sharp  cry  from  Jack:  "Turn  away, 
Pierre;  turn  quick  and  don't  dare  to  look.  I'll  take 
care  of  McGuire." 

And  Pierre  le  Rouge  turned,  grinning.  When 
she  told  him  that  he  could  look  again,  he  found  her 
with  a  bright  spot  of  color  in  either  cheek,  and  her 
eyes  avoided  his.  It  thrilled  Pierre,  and  yet  it 
troubled  him,  for  she  seemed  changed,  all  at  once, 
less  of  a  comrade,  and  strangely  aloof.  McGuire 
was  doing  up  the  clothes  in  two  bundles. 

Jacqueline  took  one  of  them  and  Pierre  the  other 
under  his  left  arm ;  with  his  right  hand  he  drew  out 
some  yellow  coins. 

"I  didn't  buy  these  clothes  because  I  didn't  have 
the  time  to  dicker  with  you,  McGuire.  I've  heard 
you  talk  prices  before,  you  know.  But  here's  what 
the  clothes  are  worth  to  us." 

And  into  the  quaking  hands  of  McGuire  he  poured 
a  chinking  stream  of  gold  pieces. 

Relief,  amazement,  and  a  very  wholesome  fear 
struggled  in  the  face  of  McGuire  as  he  saw  himself 


FULL  DRESS  r6i 

threefold  overpaid.  At  that  little  yellow  heap  he 
remained  staring,  unheeding  the  sound  of  the  retreat- 
ing outlaws.  At  it  he  still  stared  with  fascinated 
eyes  while  the  door  banged  and  the  clatter  of  gallop- 
ing hoofs  began. 

"It  ain't  possible,"  he  said  at  last,  "thieves  hare 
begun  to  pay." 

His  eyes  sought  the  ceiling. 

"So  that's  Red  Pierre?"  said  McGuire. 

As  for  Pierre  and  Jacqueline,  they  were  instantly 
safe  in  the  black  heart  of  the  mountains.  Many  a 
mile  of  hard  riding  lay  before  them,  however,  and 
already  the  dance  must  be  nearly  ready  to  begin  in 
the  Crittenden  schoolhouse.  There  was  no  road, 
not  even  a  trail  that  they  could  follow.  They  had 
never  even  seen  the  Crittenden  schoolhouse;  they 
knew  its  location  only  by  vague  descriptions. 

But  they  had  ridden  a  thousand  times  in  places 
far  more  bewildering  and  less  known  to  them.  Like 
all  true  denizens  of  the  mountain-desert,  they  had 
a  sense  of  direction  as  uncanny  as  that  of  an  Eskimo. 
Now  they  struck  off  confidently  through  the  dark  and 
trailed  up  and  down  through  the  mountains  until 
they  reached  a  hollow  in  the  center  of  which  shone 
a  group  of  dim  lights.  It  was  the  schoolhouse  near 
the  Barnes  place,  the  scene  of  the  dance. 

So  they  turned  back  behind  the  hills  and  in  the 
covert  of  a  group  of  cottonwoods  they  kindled  two 
more  little  fires,  shading  them  on  three  sides  with 
rocks  and  leaving  them  open  for  the  sake  of  light  on 
the  fourth. 

They  worked  busily  for  a  time,  without  a  word 


1 62         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

spoken  by  either  of  them.  The  only  sound  was  the 
rustling  of  Jacqueline's  stolen  silks  and  the  purling 
of  a  small  stream  of  water  near  them,  some  meager 
spring. 

But  presently:  "P-P-Pierre,  I'm  f -freezing." 

He  himself  was  numbed  by  the  chill  air  and  paused 
in  the  task  of  thrusting  a  leg  into  the  trousers,  which 
persisted  in  tangling  and  twisting  under  his  foot. 

"So'm  I.    It's  c-c-cold  as  the  d-d-d-devil." 

"And  these — th-things — aren't  any  thicker  than 
spider  webs." 

"Wait.     I'll  build  you  a  great  big  fire.' 

And  he  scooped  up  a  number  of  dead  twigs. 

"P-P-Pierre !  D-d-d-don't  you  d-d-dare  c-come  in 
s-sight  of  m-me." 

"D-d-damn  it!     I  don't  want  to  see  you." 

"P-Pierre!  Aren't  you  ash-sh-sh-shamed  to  talk 
like  that?" 

"Jack,  this  damned  collar  won't  button." 

"K-k-eep  t-t-t-trying." 

"Come  help  me." 

"Pierre !  How  can  I  come  dressed  like  th-th-this?" 

"I'm  n-n-not  going  to  the  dance." 

"P-P-P-Pierre!" 

"I'm  not." 

"Then  I  am." 

"W-w-w-without  me?" 

"Y-y-yes." 

"Jack,  you're  a  flirt." 

"I  hate  you,  Pierre!" 

"Thank  G-G-G-God!    The  collar's  on." 

"I  can't  tie  this — th-th-thing." 


FULL  DRESS  163 

"I'll  come  help  you.11 

"N-n-n-no!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"The  thing  that  g-g-goes  around  me." 

"C-c-c-corset?" 

A  silence. 

"Pierre!" 

"W-well?" 

"It's  t-t-tieoT1 

"But  this  damned  tie  isn't!" 

"I'll  do  it  for  you." 

And  then:  "N-n-no.    Go  b-b-b-back!" 

He  fixed  the  eye-glass  on  his  nose  and  laughed  at 
the  thought  of  himself. 

"Pierre." 

"Well?" 

"I've  got  the  dress  on.11 

"Then  I  can  come?" 

He  was  warm  enough  now,  with  the  suit  on  and 
even  the  tie  knotted,  after  a  fashion. 

"No.    I  st-t-till  feel  just  n-n-n-naked,  Pierre." 

"Is  there  something  missing?" 

"Yes.    Around  the  shoulders." 

"Take  the  scarf." 

There  was  an  interlude  of  more  rustling,  then: 
"P-P-Pierre." 

"Well?" 

"I  wish  I  had  a  m-m-m-mirror." 

"Jack,  are  you  vain?" 

A  cry  of  delight  answered  him.  He  threw  cau- 
tion to  the  winds  and  advanced  on  her.  He  found 
her  kneeling  above  a  pool  of  water  fed  by  the  soft 


1 64         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

sliding  little  stream  from  the  spring.  With  one  hand 
she  held  a  burning  twig  by  way  of  a  torch,  and  with 
the  other  she  patted  her  hair  into  shape  and  finally 
thrust  the  comb  into  the  glittering,  heavy  coils. 

She  started,  as  if  she  felt  his  presence  without 
looking,  and  knelt  with  body  erect. 

"P-P-Pierre!" 

"Ye*?" 

"C-c-c-close  your  eyes." 

He  obeyed. 

"Look!" 

She  stood  with  the  torch  high  overhead,  and  he 
saw  a  beauty  so  glorious  that  he  closed  his  eyes  in- 
voluntarily and  still  he  saw  the  vision  in  the  dull- 
green  gown,  with  the  scarf  of  old  gold  about  her 
shoulders  and  the  skin  peering  out  here  and  there, 
dazzling  white.  And  there  were  two  lights,  the 
barbaric  red  of  the  jewels  in  her  hair,  and  the  black 
shimmer  of  her  eyes.  He  drew  back  a  step  more. 
It  was  a  picture  to  be  looked  at  from  a  distance. 

She  ran  to  him  with  a  cry  of  dismay: 

"Pierre,  what's  wrong  with  me?" 

His  arms  went  round  her  of  their  own  accord.  It 
was  the  only  place  they  could  go.  And  all  this  fra- 
grant, marvelous  beauty  was  held  in  the  circle  of 
his  will. 

"It  isn't  that,  but  you're  so  wonderful,  Jack,  so 
glorious,  that  I  hardly  know  you.  You're  like  a 
different  person." 

He  felt  the  warm  body  trembling,  and  the  thought 
that  it  was  not  entirely  from  the  cold  set  his  heart 
beating  like  a  trip-hammer.  What  he  felt  was  so 


FULL  DRESS  165 

strange  to  him  that  he  stepped  back  in  a  vague  alarm, 
and  then  laughed.  She  stood  with  a  half  whimsical, 
half  expectant  smile. 

"Jack,  how  am  I  to  risk  you  in  the  arms  of  all  the 
strangers  in  that  dance?" 

The  light  of  Alexander  when  he  dreamed  of  new- 
worlds  to  conquer  came  into  those  wide  black  eyes. 

"It's  late.    Listen!" 

She  cupped  a  hand  at  her  ear  and  leaned  to  listen. 
Up  from  the  hollow  below  them  came  a  faint  strain 
of  music,  a  very  light  sound  that  was  drowned  a  mo- 
ment later  by  the  solemn  rushing  of  the  wind  through 
the  great  trees  above  them. 

They  looked  up  of  one  accord. 

"Pierre,  what  was  that?" 

"Nothing;  the  wind  in  the  branches,  that's  all." 

"It  was  a  hushing  sound.  It  was  like — it  was  like 
a  warning,  almost." 

But  he  was  already  turning  away,  and  the  fol- 
lowed him  hastily. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  DANCE 

JACQUELINE  could  never  back  a  horse  in  that 
gown,  or  even  sit  sidewise  in  the  saddle  without 
hopelessly  crumpling  it,  so  they  walked  to  the  school- 
house.  It  was  a  slow  progress,  for  she  had  to  step 
lightly  and  carefully  for  fear  of  the  slippers.  He 
took  her  bare  arm  and  helped  her ;  he  would  never 
have  thought  of  it  under  ordinary  conditions,  but 
since  she  had  put  on  this  gown  she  was  greatly 
changed  to  him,  no  longer  the  wild,  free  rider  of 
the  mountain-desert,  but  a  defenseless,  strangely 
weak  being.  Her  strength  was  now  something  other 
than  the  skill  to  ride  hard  and  shoot  straight  and 
quick. 

Greatest  wonder  of  all,  she  accepted  the  new  re- 
lation tacitly,  and  leaned  more  and  more  weight  on 
his  hand,  and  even  looked  up  and  laughed  with  pleas- 
ure when  he  almost  lifted  her  over  a  muddy  runlet. 
It  was  all  new,  very  strange,  and,  oddly  enough,  not 
unpleasant.  Each  was  viewing  the  other  from  such 
an  altered  point  that  neither  spoke. 

So  they  came  to  the  schoolhouse  in  this  silence, 
and  reached  the  long  line  of  buggies,  buckboards, 
and,  most  of  all,  saddled  horses.  They  flooded  the 
horse-shed  where  the  school  children  stabled  their 

1 66 


THE  DANCE  167 

mounts  in  the  winter  weather.  They  were  tethered 
to  the  posts  of  the  fence ;  they  were  grouped  about 
the  trees. 

It  was  a  prodigious  gathering,  and  a  great  affair 
for  the  mountain-desert.  They  knew  this  even  be- 
fore they  had  set  foot  within  the  building. 

They  stopped  here  and  adjusted  their  masks  care- 
fully. They  were  made  from  a  strip  of  black  lining 
which  Jack  had  torn  from  one  of  the  coats  in  the 
trunk  which  lay  far  back  in  the  hills. 

Those  masks  had  to  be  tied  firmly  and  well,  for 
some  jester  might  try  to  pull  away  that  of  Pierre, 
and  if  his  face  were  seen,  it  would  be  death — a 
slaughter  without  defense,  for  he  had  not  been  able 
to  conceal  his  big  Colt  in  these  tight-fitting  clothes. 
Even  as  it  was,  there  was  peril  from  the  moment 
that  the  lights  within  should  shine  on  that  head  of 
dark-red  hair. 

As  for  Jack,  there  was  little  fear  that  she  would 
be  recognized.  She  was  strange  even  to  Pierre 
every  time  he  looked  down  at  her,  for  she  had 
ceased  to  be  Jack  and  had  become  very  definitely 
"Jacqueline."  But  the  masks  were  on;  the  scarf 
adjusted  about  the  throat  and  bare,  shivering  shoul- 
ders of  Jack,  and  they  stood  arm  in  arm  before  the 
door  out  of  which  streamed  the  voices  and  the  music. 

"Are  you  ready  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Pierre — if  they  should  find  us  out — " 

"Never  in  a  thousand  years.     Are  you  ready?" 

"Yes." 

But  she  was  trembling  so,  either  from  fear,  or  ex- 


i6S         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

citement,  or  both,  that  he  had  to  take  a  firm  hold 
on  her  arm  and  almost  carry  her  up  the  steps,  shove 
the  door  open,  and  force  her  in. 

A  hundred  eyes  were  instantly  upon  them,  prac- 
tised, suspicious  eyes,  accustomed  to  search  into  all 
things  and  take  nothing  for  granted;  eyes  of  men 
who,  when  a  rap  came  at  their  door,  looked  to  see 
whether  or  not  the  shadow  of  the  stranger  fell  full 
in  the  center  of  the  crack  beneath  the  door.  If  it 
fell  to  one  side  the  man  might  be  an  enemy,  and 
therefore  they  would  stand  at  one  side  of  the  room, 
their  hands  upon  the  butt  of  the  si^c-gun,  and  shout: 
"Come  in."  Such  was  the  battery  of  glances  from 
the  men,  and  the  color  of  Pierre  altered,  paled. 

He  knew  some  of  those  faces,  for  those  who  hunt 
and  are  hunted  never  forget  the  least  gestures  of 
their  enemies.  There  was  a  mighty  temptation  to 
turn  back  even  then,  but  he  set  his  teeth  and  forced 
himself  to  stand  calmly,  adjust  the  absurd  eye-glass 
on  his  nose,  and  stare  about  the  room. 

The  chuckle  which  replied  to  this  maneuver  freed 
him  for  the  moment.  Suspicion  was  lulled.  More- 
over, the  red-jeweled  hair  of  Jacqueline  and  her 
lighted  eyes  called  all  attention  almost  immediately 
upon  her.  She  shifted  the  golden  scarf — the  white 
arms  and  breast  flashed  in  the  light — a  gasp  re- 
sponded. There  would  be  talk  to-morrow;  there 
were  whispers  even  now. 

It  was  not  the  main  hall  that  they  stood  in,  for 
this  school,  having  been  built  by  an  aspiring  com- 
munity, contained  two  rooms;  this  smaller  room, 
«icd  by  the  little  ones  of  the  school,  was  now  con- 


THE  DANCE  169 

verted  into  a  hat-and-cloak  room,  and  here  also  were 
a  dozen  baskets  and  boxes  filled  with  comforters 
and  blankets. 

It  was  because  of  what  lay  in  those  baskets  that 
the  men  and  the  women  walked  and  talked  softly  in 
this  room.  They  were  wary  lest  they  should  arouse 
a  sound  which  not  even  the  loudest  music  could  quite 
drown — a  sound  which  makes  all  women  sit  up 
straight  and  sniff  like  hunted  animals  at  bay,  and 
makes  all  men  frown  and  glance  about  for  places 
of  refuge. 

Now  and  then  some  girl  came  panting  and  flushed 
from  the  dance-hall  within  and  tiptoed  to  one  of 
these  baskets,  and  raised  an  edge  of  a  blanket  and 
looked  down  at  the  contents  with  a  singular  smile. 
Pierre  hung  up  his  hat,  removed  his  gloves  slowly, 
nerving  himself  to  endure  the  sharp  glances,  and 
opened  the  door  for  Jacqueline. 

If  she  had  held  back  tremulously  before,  some- 
thing she  had  seen  in  the  eyes  of ., those  in  the  first 
room,  something  in  the  whisper  and  murmur  which 
rose  the  moment  she  started  to  leave,  gave  her  cour- 
age. She  stepped  into  the  dance-hall  like  a  queen 
going  forth  to  address  devoted  subjects. 

The  second  ordeal  was  easier  than  the  first. 
There  were  many  times  more  people  in  that  crowded 
room,  but  each  was  intent  upon  his  own  pleasure. 
A  wave  of  warmth  and  light  swept  upon  them,  and 
a  blare  of  music,  and  a  stir  and  hum  of  voices,  and 
here  and  there  the  sweet  sound  of  a  happy  girl's 
laughter.  They  raised  their  heads,  these  two  wild 


170         RIDERS  6F  THE  SILENCES 

rangers  of  the  mountain-desert,  and  breathed  deep 
of  the  fantastic  scene. 

It  was  marvelous,  indeed,  that  so  much  gay  life 
could  exist  within  the  arms  of  those  gaunt,  naked 
hills  beyond  the  windows.  There  was  no  attempt 
at  beauty  in  the  costumes  of  the  masqueraders. 
Here  and  there  some  girl  achieved  a  novel  and  pleas- 
ing effect;  but  on  the  whole  they  strove  for  cheaper 
and  more  stirring  things  in  the  line  of  the  grotesque. 

Here  passed  a  youth  wearing  a  beard  made  from 
the  stiff,  red  bristles  of  the  tail  of  a  sorrel  horse. 
Another  wore  a  bear's  head  cunningly  stuffed,  the 
grinning  teeth  flashing  over  his  head  and  the  skin 
draped  over  his  shoulders.  A  third  disfigured  him- 
self horribly  by  painting  after  the  fashion  of  an  In- 
dian on  the  war-path,  with  crimson  streaks  down  his 
forehead  and  red  and  black  across  his  cheeks. 

But  not  more  than  a  third  of  all  the  assembly 
made  any  effort  to  masquerade,  beyond  the  use  of 
the  simple  black  mask  across  the  upper  part  of  the 
face.  The  rest  of  the  men  and  women  contented 
themselves  with  wearing  the  very  finest  clothes  they 
could  afford  to  buy,  and  there  was  through  the  air 
a  scent  of  the  general  merchandise  store  which  not 
even  a  liberal  use  of  cheap  perfume  and  all  the  drifts 
of  pale-blue  cigarette  smoke  could  quite  overcome. 

As  for  the  music,  it  was  furnished  by  two  very 
old  men,  relics  of  the  days  when  there  were  contests 
in  fiddling;  a  stout  fellow  of  middle  age,  with  cheeks 
swelled  almost  to  bursting  as  he  thundered  out 
terrific  blasts  on  a  slide  trombone;  a  youth  who 


THE  DANCE  171 

rattled  two  sticks  on  an  overturned  dish-pan  in  lieu 
of  a  drum,  and  a  cornetist  of  real  skill. 

In  an  interlude,  before  very  long,  he  would  amuse 
with  a  solo,  including  all  sorts  of  runs  and  whistling 
notes,  and  be  a  source  of  talk  for  many  a  month 
to  come. 

There  were  hard  faces  in  the  crowd,  most  of 
them,  of  men  who  had  set  their  teeth  against  hard 
weather  and  hard  men,  and  fought  their  way 
through,  not  to  happiness,  but  to  existence,  so  that 
fighting  had  become  their  pleasure. 

Now  they  relaxed  their  eternal  vigilance,  their 
eternal  suspicion.  Another  phase  of  their  nature 
weakened.  Some  of  them  were  smiling  and  laugh- 
ing for  the  first  time  in  months,  perhaps,  of  bitter 
labor  and  loneliness  on  the  range.  With  the  gates 
of  good-nature  opened,  a  veritable  flood  of  gaiety 
burst  out.  It  glittered  in  their  eyes,  it  rose  to  their 
lips  in  a  wild  laughter.  They  seemed  to  be  dancing 
more  furiously  fast  in  order  to  forget  the  life  which 
they  had  left,  and  to  which  they  must  return. 

And  through  all  the  cheapness  there  was  a  great 
note  of  poetry  as  well;  but  one  caught  this  only  by 
a  sense  of  intuition,  or  by  remembering  that  these 
were  the  conquerors  of  the  bitter  nature  of  the  moun- 
tain-desert There  was  beauty  here,  the  beauty  of 
strength  in  the  men  and  a  brown  loveliness  in  the 
girls;  just  as  in  the  music,  the  blatancy  of  the  rat- 
tling dish-pan  and  the  blaring  trombone  were  more 
than  balanced  by  the  real  skill  of  the  violinists,  who 
kept  a  high,  sweet,  singing  tone  through  all  the 
clamor. 


1 72         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

One  could  close  his  ears  to  the  rest  of  the  noise, 
if  he  strove  to  do  so,  and  hear  nothing  but  that  har- 
monious moaning  of  the  strings,  steady  and  clear, 
like  the  aspirations  of  a  man  divorced  from  the  facts 
of  his  weakness  and  his  crudeness  in  practical  life. 

And  Pierre  le  Rouge  and  Jacqueline?  They 
stood  aghast  for  a  moment  when  that  crash  of  noise 
broke  around  them;  but  they  came  from  a  life  where 
there  was  nothing  of  beauty  except  the  lonely 
strength  of  the  mountains  and  the  appalling  silences 
of  the  stars  that  roll  above  the  desert.  Almost  at 
once  they  caught  the  overtone  of  human  joyousness, 
and  they  turned  with  strange  smiles  to  each  other, 
and  it  was  "Pierre?"  "Jack?"  Then  a  nod,  and  she 
was  in  his  arms,  and  they  glided  into  the  dance. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  OVERTONE 

WHEN  a  crowd  gathers  in  the  street,  there  rises 
a  babel  of  voices,  a  confused  and  pointless  clamor, 
no  matter  what  the  purpose  of  the  gathering,  until 
some  man  who  can  think  as  well  as  shout  begins  to 
speak.  Then  the  crowd  murmurs  a  moment,  and 
after  a  few  seconds  composes  itself  to  listen. 

So  it  was  with  the  noise  in  the  hall  when  Pierre 
and  Jacqueline  began  to  dance.  First  there  were 
smiles  of  derision  and  envy  around  them,  but  after 
a  moment  a  little  hush  came  where  they  moved,  and 
then  men  began  to  note  the  smile  of  the  girl  and 
the  whiteness  of  that  round  throat,  and  the  grace 
of  the  bare,  tapering  arms. 

So  a  whisper  went  around  the  room,  and  there 
began  a  craning  of  necks  and  an  exchange  of  nods. 
All  that  crowd  became  in  a  moment  no  more  than 
the  chorus  which  fills  the  background  of  the  stage 
when  the  principals  step  out  from  the  wings. 

They  could  not  help  but  dance  well,  for  they  had 
youth  and  grace  and  strength,  and  the  glances  of 
applause  and  envy  were  like  wine  to  quicken  their 
blood,  while  above  all  they  caught  the  overtone  of 
the  singing  violins,  and  danced  by  that  alone.  The 
music  ended  with  a  long  flourish  just  as  they  whirled 

173 


174         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

to  a  stop  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  At  once  an  eddy 
of  men  started  toward  them. 

"Who  shall  it  be?"  smiled  Pierre.  "With  whom 
do  you  want  to  dance?  It's  your  triumph,  Jack." 

She  was  alight  and  alive  with  the  victory,  and  her 
eyes  roved  over  the  crowd. 

"The  big  man  with  the  tawny  hair." 

"But  he's  making  right  past  us." 

"No;  he'll  turn  and  come  back." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

For  answer  she  glanced  up  and  laughed,  and  he 
realized  with  a  singular  sense  of  loneliness  that  she 
knew  many  things  which  were  beyond  his  ken.  Some 
one  touched  his  arm,  and  a  voice,  many  voices,  beset 
him: 

"How's  the  chances  for  a  dance  with  the  girl, 
partner?" 

"My  name's  McCormack.  Riley?  Glad  to  know 
you.  I've  got  a  flask  on  the  hip,  Riley;  what's  the 
chance  of  making  a  trade  on  this  next  dance?" 

"How  do  we  swap  partners?  Mine  is  the  rangy 
girl  with  the  red  topknot.  Not  much  on  looks,  Bill, 
but  a  cayuse  don't  cover  ground  on  his  looks. 
Dance?  Say,  Bill,  she'll  rock  you  to  sleep!" 

"This  dance  is  already  booked,"  Pierre  answered, 
and  kept  his  eyes  on  the  tall  man  with  the  scarred 
face  and  the  resolute  jaw.  He  wondered  pro- 
foundly why  Jacqueline  had  chosen  such  a  partner. 

At  least  she  had  prophesied  correctly,  for  the  big 
man  turned  toward  them  just  as  he  seemed  about 
to  head  for  another  part  of  the  hall.  The  crowd 
gave  way  before  him,  not  that  he  shouldered  them 


THE  OVERTONE  175 

aside,  but  they  seemed  to  feel  the  coming  of  his 
shadow  before  him,  and  separated  as  they  would 
have  done  before  the  shadow  of  a  falling  tree. 

In  another  moment  Pierre  found  himself  looking 
up  to  the  giant.  No  mask  could  disguise  him, 
neither  cover  that  long,  twisting  mark  of  white  down 
his  cheek,  nor  hide  the  square  set  of  the  jaw,  nor 
dim  the  keen  steady  eyes.  Upon  him  there  was 
written  at  large :  "This  is  a  man." 

And  there  came  to  Pierre  an  exceedingly  great 
uneasiness  in  his  right  hand,  and  a  twitching  of  the 
fingers  low  down  on  his  thigh  where  the  familiar 
holster  should  have  hung.  His  left  hand  rose,  fol- 
lowing the  old  instinct,  and  touched  beneath  his 
throat  where  the  cold  cross  lay. 

He  was  saying  easily:  "This  is  your  dance,  isn't 

it?1 

"Right,  Bud,"  answered  the  big  man  in  a  mellow 
voice  as  great  as  his  size.  "Sorry  I  can't  swap  part- 
ners with  you,  but  I  hunt  alone." 

An  overwhelming  desire  to  get  a  distance  between 
himself  and  this  huge  unknown  came  to  Pierre. 

He  said:  "There  goes  the  music.    You're  off." 

And  the  other,  moving  toward  Jack,  leaned  down 
a  little  and  murmured  at  the  ear  of  the  outlaw: 
"Thanks,  Pierre." 

Then  he  was  gone,  and  Jacqueline  was  laughing 
over  his  shoulder  back  to  Pierre. 

Through  his  daze  and  through  the  rising  clamor 
of  the  music,  a  voice  said  beside  him:  "You  look 
sort  of  sick,  dude.  Who's  your  friend?" 

"Don't  you  know  him?"  asked  Pierre. 


176         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"No  more  than  I  do  you;  but  I've  ridden  the 
range  for  ten  years  around  here,  and  I  know  that 
he's  new  to  these  parts.  If  I'd  ever  glimpsed  him 
before,  I'd  remember  him.  He'd  be  a  bad  man  in 
a  mix,  eh?" 

And  Pierre  answered  with  devout  earnestness: 
"He  would." 

"But  where  'd  you  buy  those  duds,  pal?  Hey, 
look!  Here's  what  I've  been  waiting  for — the 
Barneses  and  the  girl  that's  visitin'  'em  from  the 
East." 

"What  girl?" 

"Look!" 

The  Barnes  group  was  passing  through  the  door, 
and  last  came  the  unmistakable  form  of  Dick  Wilbur, 
masked,  but  not  masked  enough  to  hide  his  familiar 
smile  or  cover  the  well-known  sound  of  his  laughter 
as  it  drifted  to  Pierre  across  the  hall,  and  on  his  arm 
was  a  girl  in  an  evening  dress  of  blue,  with  a  small, 
black  mask  across  her  eyes,  and  deep-golden  hair. 

Pausing  before  she  swung  into  the  dance  with 
Wilbur,  she  made  a  gesture  with  the  white  arm, 
and  looked  up  laughing  to  big,  handsome  Dick. 
Pierre  trembled,  and  his  heart  beat  once  and 
stopped. 

As  he  watched,  the  song  which  Dick  had  sung 
came  like  a  monotonous,  religious  chant  within  him : 


They  call  me  poor,  yet  I  am  rich 
In  the  touch  of  her  golden  hair; 

My  heart  is  filled   like   a   raiser's  hamh 
With  the  red-gold  of  her  hair. 


THE  OVERTONE  177 

The  only  sky  I  ride  beneath 

Is  the  dear  blue  of  her  eyes, 
The  only  heaven  I  desire 

Is  the  blue  of  her  dear  eyes. 

But  even  the  memory  of  the  song  died  in  him 
while  he  watched  her  dance,  and  saw  the  lights  and 
shadows  flit  across  the  smooth  shoulders;  and  when. 
he  saw  the  hands  of  Wilbur  about  her,  a  red  rage 
came  up  in  him. 

Dick  in  passing,  marked  that  stare  above  the 
heads  of  the  crowd,  and  frowned  with  trouble.  The 
hungry  eyes  of  Pierre  followed  them  as  they  circled 
the  hall  again;  and  this  time  Wilbur,  perhaps  fear- 
ing that  something  had  gone  wrong  with  Pierre, 
steered  close  to  the  edge  of  the  dancing  crowd  and 
looked  inquisitively  across. 

He  leaned  and  spoke  to  the  girl,  and  she  turned 
her  head,  smiling,  to  Pierre.  Then  the  smile  went 
out,  and  even  despite  the  mask,  he  saw  that  her  eyes 
had  widened.  The  heart  of  Pierre  grew  thunderous 
with  music.  She  had  stopped  and  slipped  from  the 
arm  of  Wilbur,  and  came  step  by  step  slowly  toward 
him  like  one  walking  in  her  sleep. 

There,  by  the  edge  of  the  dancers,  with  the  noise 
of  the  music  and  the  laughter  and  the  shuffling  feet 
to  cover  them,  they  met.  The  hands  she  held  to  him 
were  cold  and  trembling.  He  only  knew  that  they 
were  marvelously  soft,  and  that  they  faltered  and 
closed  strongly  about  his  own. 

"Is  it  you?" 

"It  is  I." 


178         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

That  was  all;  and  then  the  shadow  of  Wilbur 
loomed  above  them. 

"What's  this?  Do  you  know  each  other?  It 
isn't  possible !  Pierre,  are  you  playing  a  game  with 
me?" 

But  under  the  glance  of  Pierre  he  fell  back  a  step, 
and  reached  for  the  gun  which  was  not  there.  They 
were  alone  once  more. 

"Mary — Mary  Brown!" 

"Pierre!" 

"But  you  are  dead!" 

"No,  no !    But  you — Pierre " 

"It  was  a  miracle — the  cross — that  saved  me." 

"Where  can  we  go?" 

"Outside." 

"Pierre." 

"Yes." 

"Hold  my  arm  close — so  I'll  know  it  isn't  just 
dreaming.  And  go  quickly!" 

"They  are  staring  at  us — the  fools — as  if  they 
were  trying  to  understand." 

"We'll  be  followed?" 

"Never." 

"Do  you  need  a  wrap?" 

"No." 

"But  it  is  cold  outside,  and  your  shoulders  are 
bare." 

"Then  take  that  cloak.  But  quickly,  Pierre,  be- 
fore we're  followed." 

He  drew  it  about  her;  he  led  her  through  the 
door;  it  clicked  shut;  they  were  alone  with  the  sweet, 
frosty  air  about  them.  She  tore  away  the  mask, 


THE  OVERTONE  179 

and  her  beauty  struck  him  like  the  moon  when  it 
drops  suddenly  through  a  mist  of  clouds. 

"And  yours,  Pierre?" 

"Not  here." 

"Why?" 

"Because  there  are  people.  Hurry.  Now  here, 
with  just  the  trees  around  us " 

And  he  tore  off  the  mask. 

The  white,  cold  moon  shone  over  them,  slipping 
down  between  the  dark  tops  of  the  trees,  and  the 
wind  stirred  slowly  through  the  branches  with  a 
faint,  hushing  sound,  as  if  once  more  a  warning 
were  coming  to  Pierre  this  night.  He  looked  up, 
his  left  hand  at  the  cross. 

"Look  down.  You  are  afraid  of  something, 
Pierre.  What  is  it?" 

"With  your  arms  around  my  neck,  there's  nothing 
in  the  world  I  fear.  Mary,  I  loved  you  all  this 
time." 

"Pierre— and  I " 

"But  you  have  grown  so  tall — so  strange — I  can 
hardly  feel " 

"And  you — so  stern  and  old." 

"I  never  dreamed  I  could  love  anything  more 
than  the  little  girl  who  lay  in  the  snow,  and  died 
there  that  night." 

"And  I  never  dreamed  I  could  smile  at  any  man 
except  the  boy  who  lay  by  me  that  night.  And  he 
died." 

"What  miracle  saved  you?" 

She  said :  "It  was  wonderful,  and  yet  very  simple. 
You  remember  how  the  tree  crushed  me  down  into 


1 80        RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

the  snow?  Well,  when  the  landslide  moved,  it  car- 
ried the  tree  before  it;  the  weight  of  the  trunk  was 
lifted  from  me.  Perhaps  it  was  a  rock  that  struck 
me  over  the  head  then,  for  I  lost  consciousness.  The 
slide  didn't  bury  me,  but  the  rush  carried  me  before 
it  like  a  stick  before  a  wave,  you  see. 

"When  I  woke  I  was  almost  completely  covered 
with  a  blanket  of  debris,  but  I  could  move  my  arms, 
and  managed  to  prop  myself  up  in  a  sitting  posture. 
It  was  there  that  my  father  and  his  searching  party 
found  me;  he  had  been  combing  that  district  all 
night.  They  carried  me  back,  terribly  bruised,  but 
without  even  a  bone  broken.  It  was  a  miracle  that 
I  escaped,  and  the  miracle  must  have  been  worked 
by  your  cross;  do  you  remember?" 

He  shuddered  and  threw  a  hand  up  before  his 
eyes. 

"Dearest " 

"It's  nothing — but  the  cross — for  every  good  for- 
tune it  has  brought  me,  it  has  brought  bad  luck  to 
others." 

"Hush,  Pierre.  Put  your  arms  around  me.  I 
am  all  yours — all.  You  must  not  think  of  the 
trouble  or  the  cross." 

He  obeyed  and  drew  her  close  to  him,  and  the 
warm  slender  body  gave  to  him  and  lay  close  against 
his;  and  her  head  went  back,  and  the  curve  of  her 
soft  lips  was  close  to  his.  He  kissed  her,  reverently, 
and  then,  with  passion,  the  lips,  the  eyes,  the  throat, 
that  quivered  as  if  she  were  singing. 

"Pierre,  I  have  said  good  night  to  you  every  time 
before  I  went  to  sleep  all  these  years." 


THE  OVERTONE  181 

'And  IVc  looked  for  you  in  the  face  of  every 


woman." 


"And  I  used  to  think  that  a  still,  small  voice  an- 
swered me  out  of  the  night." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  there  was  a  voice;  for  I've  loved 
you  so  hard  that  it  must  have  been  like  a  hand  at 
yoiy  shoulder  tapping,  and  asking  you  to  remember 
me.  Mary,  you  are  crying." 

"I'm  so  happy;  I  can't  help  it.  It's  as  if — as  if — 
Pierre " 

"Dear,  my  dear." 

"Hold  me  closer.  I  want  to  feel  your  strength 
around  me,  so  that  I  know  I  can  never  lose  you 
again." 

"Never." 

"Tell  me  again  that  you  love  me." 

"I  love  you." 

"I  love  you,  Pierre." 

Then  the  wind  spoke  for  them,  using  the  trees 
for  a  harp  above  them.  She  looked  up  to  him,  and 
saw  the  nodding  branches  above  his  head,  and  higher 
still,  the  cold  and  changeless  radiance  of  the  stars. 
He  bent  back  her  head  and  stared  so  grimly  down 
Into  her  eyes  that  her  smile  ceased  tremulously. 

"Mary,  what  is  the  perfume?" 

"None,  except  the  scent  of  the  pines  and  the 
sweet,  cold  air  of  the  night,  Pierre." 

"There  is  something  more.  It's  as  if  the  wind 
had  taken  all  the  fragrance  from  a  thousand  miles 
of  wild  flowers,  and  brought  them  blended  and  faint 
and  sweeter  than  anything  else  in  the  world  It  is 


1 82         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

you,  Mary,  you  are  so  beautiful.  How  many  men 
have  told  you  that  you  are  beautiful?" 

"None  have  told  me ;  at  least  I've  listened  to  them 
with  only  half  my  heart." 

"What  have  they  told  you?" 

"Nothing,  except  words  about  eyes  and  lips,  and 
things  like  that." 

"And  your  hair?" 

"Oh,  yes,  they  never  forget  that." 

"Then  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  to  say,  except 
that  God  made  you  so  that  I  could  love  you  with  all 
my  heart.  And  while  I  hold  you  here  and  hunt  for 
things  to  say,  my  mind  goes  rushing  out  to  great 
things — the  sea,  the  mountains,  the  wind,  the  cold, 
quiet,  beautiful  stars.  But  you  are  unhappy  to  hear 
me.  Look  I  The  big  tears  come  one  by  one  in 
your  eyes,  and  roll  down  your  face." 

"I'm  so  happy,  Pierre,  that  I  cannot  help  but  be 
sad  a  little." 

"But  never  after  this.    We  will  always  be  happy." 

"Always  and  always." 

"Mary,  I  have  ridden  all  day  over  a  burning  hot 
desert  and  come  under  the  mountains  at  night  and 
looked  up,  and  I've  seen  the  white,  pure  snow  with 
the  blue  of  the  sky  behind  it.  You  are  like  that 
to  me.  But  you  will  be  cold  out  here;  I  musn't  go 
on  saying  nothings  like  this." 

"I  love  it,  Pierre.    I  won't  have  you  stop." 

"Sit  here  on  this  stump — now,  I'll  sit  at  your 
feet." 

"No,  beside  me,  please,  Pierre." 

"I  will  not  move.     Give  me  your  hands.     Now, 


THE  OVERTONE  183 

when  I  look  up  your  face  is  framed  by  a  tree-top 
that  goes  nodding  from  one  side  to  the  other,  and 
I  look  up  at  your  eyes  and  past  them  at  the  stars 
until  I  know  that  our  love  is  like  them,  and  free  as 
the  wind.  Mary,  my  dearest,  your  cold  hand  that 
I  kiss  is  more  to  me  than  oceans  of  silver,  or  moun- 
tains of  gold." 

"Now,  if  we  could  both  die,  this  would  never 
end.  But  it  will  never  end  in  spite  of  to-morrow, 
will  it?  You  will  go  back  home  with  me." 

uGo  home  with  you?" 

"Take  my  hand  again.  Pierre,  what  has  hap- 
pened? What  have  I  done?  What  have  I  said?" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  FEAR  OF  THE  LIVING 

BUT  he  only  stared  gravely  up  to  her  with  such 
a  sorrow  that  her  heart  went  cold. 

"Nothing — but  I've  remembered." 

"What?" 

"It's  the  cross.  It  brings  luck  and  bad  fortune 
together.  Mary,  I'll  throw  it  away,  now — and  then 
— no,  it  makes  no  difference.  We  are  done  for." 

"Pierre!" 

"Don't  you  see,  Mary,  or  are  you  still  blind  as 
I  was  ever  since  I  saw  you  tonight?  It's  all  in  that 
name — Pierre." 

"There  nothing  in  it,  Pierre,  that  I  don't  love." 

He  rose,  and  she  with  him.  His  head  was  bowed 
as  if  with  the  weight  of  the  doom  which  he  fore- 
saw. 

"You  have  heard  of  the  wild  men  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  the  long-riders?" 

He  knew  that  she  nodded,  though  she  could  not 
speak. 

"I  am  Red  Pierre." 

"You!" 

"Yes." 

Yet  he  had  the  courage  to  raise  his  head  and 
watch  her  shrink  with  horror.  It  was  only  an  in- 

184 


THE  FEAR  OF  THE  LIVING        185 

stant.  Then  she  was  beside  him  again,  and  one 
arm  around  him,  while  she  turned  her  head  and 
glanced  fearfully  back  at  the  lighted  schoolhouse. 
The  faint  music  mocked  them. 

"And  you  dared  to  come  to  the  dance?  We  must 
go.  Look,  there  are  horses !  We'll  ride  off  into  the 
mountains,  and  they'll  never  find  us — we'll " 

"Hush!  One  day's  riding  would  kill  you — riding 
as  I  ride." 

"I'm  strong — very  strong,  and  the  love  of  you, 
Pierre,  will  give  me  more  strength.  But  quickly,  for 
if  they  knew  you,  every  man  in  that  place  would 
come  armed  and  ready  to  kill.  I  know,  for  I've 
heard  them  talk.  Tell  me,  are  one-half  of  all  the 
terrible  things  they  say " 

"They  are  true,  I  guess." 

"I  won't  think  of  them.  Whatever  you've  done, 
it  was  not  you,  but  some  devil  that  forced  you  on. 
Pierre,  I  love  you  more  than  ever.  Will  you  go 
East  with  me,  and  home?  We  will  lose  ourselves  in 
New  York.  The  millions  of  the  crowd  will  hide 


us." 


"Mary,  there  are  some  men  from  whom  even 
the  night  can't  hide  me.  If  they  were  blind  their 
hate  would  give  them  eyes  to  find  me." 

"Pierre,  you  are  not  turning  away  from  me — 
Pierre!" 

"God  help  me." 

"He  will.  There's  some  ghost  of  a  chance  for 
u».  Will  you  take  that  chance  and  come  with  me?" 

He  thought  of  many  things,  but  what  he  answered 
was  :"1  will." 


1 86         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"Then  let's  go  at  once.    The  railroad " 

"Not  that  way.  No  one  in  that  house  suspects 
me  now.  We'll  go  back  and  put  on  our  masks 
again,  and — hush,  what's  there?" 

"Nothing." 

"There  is — a  man  s  step. 

And  she,  seeing  the  look  on  his  face,  covered  her 
eyes  in  nameless  horror.  When  she  looked  up  a 
great  form  was  looming  through  the  dark,  and  then 
the  voice  of  Wilbur  came,  hard  and  cold. 

"IVe  looked  everywhere  for  you.  Miss  Brown, 
they  are  anxious  about  you  in  the  schoolhouse.  Will 
you  go  back?" 

"No— I " 

But  Pierre  commanded:  "Go  back." 

So  she  turned,  and  he  ordered  again:  4<I  think 
our  friend  has  something  to  say  to  me.  You  can 
find  your  way  easily.  To-morrow " 

"To-morrow,  Pierre?" 

"Yes." 

"I  shall  be  waiting." 

With  what  a  voice  she  said  it!  And  thea  she  was 
gone. 

He  turned  quietly  to  big  Dick  Wilbur,  on  whose 
contorted  face  the  moonlight  fell. 

"Say  it,  Dick,  and  have  it  out  in  cursing  me,  if 
that  '11  help." 

The  big  man  stood  with  his  hands  gripped  hard 
behind  him,  fighting  for  self-control. 

"Pierre,  I've  cared  for  you  more  than  I've  cared 
for  any  other  man.  I've  thought  of  you  like  a  kid 
brother.  Now  tell  me  that  you  haven't  done  this 


THE  FEAR  OF  THE  LIVING       187 

thing,  and  I'll  believe  you  rather  than  my  senses. 
Tell  me  you  haven't  come  like  a  thief  in  the  night 
and  stolen  the  girl  I  love  away  from  me;  tell 

m  *•__—" 

"If  you  keep  on  like  that,  you'll  end  by  jumping 
at  my  throat.  Hold  yourself,  Dick." 

"I  will  if  you'll  tell  me  that  you  haven't " 

"I  love  her,  Dick." 

"Damn  you!    And  she?" 

"She'll  forget  me;  God  knows  I  hope  she'll  far- 
get  me." 

"I  brought  two  guns  with  me.     Here  they  are." 

He  held  out  the  weapons. 

"Take  your  choice." 

"Does  it  have  to  be  this  way?" 

"If  you'd  rather  have  me  shoot  YOU  down  in  cold 
blood?" 

"I  suppose  this  is  as  good  a  way  as  any." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Nothing.    Give  me  a  gun." 

"Here.    This  is  ten  paces.    Are  you  ready?" 

"Yes." 

"Pierre.  God  forgive  you  for  what  you've  done. 
She  liked  me,  I  know.  If  it  weren't  for  you,  I 
would  have  won  her  and  a  chance  for  real  life  again 
— but  now — damn  you!" 

"I'll  count  to  ten,  slowly  and  evenly.  When  I 
reach  ten  we  fire?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll  trust  you  not  to  beat  the  count,  Dick." 

"And  I  you.    Start." 


1 88         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

He  counted  quietly,  evenly:  "One,  two,  three, 
four,  five  six,  seven,  eight,  nine — ten." 

The  gun  jerked  up  in  the  hand  of  Wilbur,  but  he 
stayed  the  movement  with  his  finger  pressing  still 
upon  the  trigger.  The  hand  of  Pierre  had  not 
moved. 

He  cried:  "By  God,  Pierre,  what  do  you  mean?" 

There  was  no  answer.  He  strode  across  the  in- 
tervening space  dropped  his  gun,  and  caught  the 
other  by  the  shoulders.  Out  of  the  nerveless  fingers 
of  Pierre  the  revolver  slipped  and  crushed  a  dead 
twig  on  the  ground,  and  a  pair  of  lifeless  eyes  stared 
up  to  Dick  Wilbur. 

"In  the  name  of  God,  Pierre,  what  has  happened 
to  you?" 

"Dick,  why  didn't  you  fire?" 

"Fire?    Murder  you?" 

"You  shoot  straight — I  know — it  would  have 
been  over  quickly." 

"What  is  it,  boy?  You  look  dead — there's  no 
color  in  your  face,  no  light  in  your  eyes,  even  your 
voice  is  dead.  I  know  it  isn't  fear.  What  is  it?" 

"You're  wrong.    It's  fear." 

"Fear  and  Red  Pierre.     The  two  don't  mate." 

"Fear  of  living,  Dick." 

"So  that's  it?  God  help  you.  Pierre,  forgive 
me.  I  should  have  known  that  you  had  met  her 
before,  but  I  was  mad,  and  didn't  know  what  I  was 
doing,  couldn't  think." 

"It's  over  and  forgotten.  I  have  to  go  back  and 
get  Jack.  Will  you  ride  home  with  us?" 


THE  FEAR  OF  THE  LIVING        18; 

"Jack?  She's  not  in  the  hall.  She  left  shortly 
after  you  went,  and  she  means  some  deviltry. 
There's  a  jealous  fiend  in  that  girl.  I  watched  her 
eyes  when  they  followed  you  and  Mary  from  the 
hall." 

"Then  we'll  ride  back  alone." 

"Not  I.  Carry  the  word  to  Jim  that  I'm  through 
with  the  game.  I'm  going  to  wash  some  of  the 
grime  off  my  conscience  and  try  to  make  myself  fit 
to  speak  to  this  girl  again." 

"It's  the  cross,"  said  Pierre. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Nothing.  The  bad  luck  has  come  to  poor  old 
Jim  at  last,  because  he  saved  me  out  of  the  snow. 
Patterson  has  gone,  and  now  you,  and  perhaps  Jack 
— well,  this  is  good-by,  Dick?" 

"Yes." 

Their  hands  met,  a  long,  strong  grip. 

"You  forgive  me,  Dick?" 

"With  all  my  heart,  old  fellow." 

"I'll  try  to  wish  you  luck.  Stay  close  to  her.  Live 
clean  for  her  sake  and  worship  her  like  a  saint.  Per- 
haps you'll  win  her." 

"I'll  do  what  one  man  can." 

"But  if  you  succeed,  ride  out  of  the  mountain- 
desert  with  her — never  let  me  hear  of  it." 

"I  don't  understand.  Will  you  tell  me  what's  be- 
tween you,  Pierre?  You've  some  sort  of  claim  on 
her.  What  is  it?" 

"I've  said  good-by.  Only  one  thing  more.  Nerer 
mention  my  name  to  her." 


190         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

So  he  turned  and  walked  out  into  the  moonlight 
in  the  immaculate  dress-suit  and  big  Wilbur  stared 
after  him  until  he  disappeared  beyond  the  shoulder 
of  a  hill 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  LUCK  OF  THE  SHIPWRECKED 

IT  was  early  morning  before  Pierre  reached  the 
refuge  of  Boone's  gang,  but  there  was  still  a  light 
through  the  window  of  the  large  room,  and  he  en- 
tered to  find  Boone,  Mansie,  and  Gandil  grouped 
about  tht  fire,  all  ominously  silent,  all  ominously 
wakeful.  They  looked  up  to  him  and  big  Jim  nodded 
his  gray  head.  Otherwise  there  was  no  greeting. 

From  a  shadowy  corner  Jacqueline  rose  and  went 
toward  the  door.  He  crossed  quickly  and  barred 
the  way. 

"What  is  it,  Jack?" 

"Get  out  of  the  way." 

"Not  till  you  tell  me  what's  wrong." 

A  veritable  devil  of  fury  came  blazing  in  her  eyes, 
and  her  hand  twitched  nervously  back  to  her  hip 
where  the  dark  holster  hung.  She  said  in  a  voice 
that  shook  with  anger:  "Don't  try  your  bluff  on  me. 
I  ain't  no  shorthorn,  Pierre  le  Rouge." 

He  stepped  aside,  frowning. 

"To-morrow  I'll  argue  the  point  with  you,  Jack." 

She  turned  at  the  door  and  snapped  back:  "You? 
You  ain't  fast  enough  on  the  draw  to  argue  with 
me!" 

And  she  was  gone.  He  turned  to  face  the  mock- 

191 


192         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

ing  smile  of  Black  Gandil  and  a  rapid  volley  of  ques- 
tions. 

"Where's  Patterson  ?" 

"No  more  idea  than  vou  have." 

"And  Branch  ?" 

"What's  become  of  Branch?  Hasn't  he  re- 
turned?" 

"No.    And  Dick  Wilbur?" 

"Boys,  he's  done  with  this  life  and  I'm  glad  of 
it.  He's  starting  on  a  new  track." 

"After  a  woman?"  sneered  Bud  Mansie. 

"Shut  up,  Bud,"  broke  in  Boone,  and  then  slowly 
to  Pierre:  "Patterson  is  gone  for  two  days  now. 
You  ought  to  know  what  that  means.  Branch  ought 
to  have  returned  from  looking  for  him,  and  Branch 
is  still  out.  Wilbur  is  gone.  Out  of  seven  we're 
only  four  left.  Who's  next?" 

He  stared  gloomily  from  face  to  face,  and  Gandil 
snarled:  "A  fellow  who  saves  a  shipwrecked  man — " 

"Damn  you,  keep  still,  Gandil." 

"Don't  damn  me,  Pierre  le  Rouge,  but  damn  the 
luck  you've  brought  to  Jim  Boone." 

"Jim,  do  you  chalk  all  this  up  against  me?" 

"I,  lad?  No,  no!  But  it's  queer.  Patterson's 
done  for;  there's  no  doubt  of  that.  Good-natured 
Garry  Patterson.  God,  boy,  how  we'll  miss  him! 
And  Branch  seems  to  have  gone  the  same  way.  If 
neither  of  them  show  up  before  morning  we  can 
cross  'em  off  the  list.  Now  Wilbur  has  gone  and 
Jack  has  ridden  home  looking  like  a  small-sized  thun- 
der storm,  and  now  you  come  with  a  white  face  and 
a  blank  eye.  What  hell  is  trailin'  us,  Pierre,  what 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  SHIPWRECKED    193 

hell  is  in  store  for  us.  YouVe  seen  something,  and 
we  want  to  know  what  it  is.'* 

"A  ghost,  Jim,  that's  all.    Just  a  ghost." 

Bud  Mansie  said  softly:  "There's  only  one  ghost 
that  could  make  you  look  like  this.  Was  it  McGurk, 
Pierre?" 

Boone  commanded:  uNo  more  of  that,  Bud. 
Boy's  we're  going  to  turn  in,  and  to-morrow  we'll 
climb  the  hills  looking  for  the  two  we've  lost.  But 
there's  something  or  some  one  after  us.  Lads,  I'm 
thinking  our  good  days  are  over.  The  seven  of  us 
have  been  too  many  for  a  small  posse  and  too  fast 
for  a  big  one,  but  the  seven  are  down  to  four.  The 
good  days  are  over." 

And  the  three  answered  in  a  solemn  chorus:  uThc 
good  days  are  over." 

All  eyes  fixed  on  Pierre,  and  his  glance  was 
settled  on  the  floor. 

The  morning  brought  them  no  better  cheer,  for 
Jack,  whose  singing  generally  wakened  them,  was 
not  to  be  coaxed  into  speech,  and  when  Pierre  en- 
tered the  room  she  rose  and  left  the  breakfast-table. 
The  sad  eyes  of  Jim  Boone  followed  her  and  then 
turned  to  Pierre.  No  explanation  was  forthcoming, 
and  he  asked  for  none.  The  old  fatalist  had  ac- 
cepted the  worst,  and  now  he  waited  for  doom  to 
descend. 

They  took  their  horses  after  breakfast  and  rode 
out  to  search  the  hills,  for  it  was  quite  possible  that 
an  accident  had  crippled  at  least  one  of  the  two  lost 
men,  either  Patterson  or  Branch.  Not  a  gully  within 


194         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

miles  was  left  unsearched,  but  toward  evening  they 
rode  back,  one  by  one,  with  no  tidings. 

One  by  one  they  rode  up,  and  whistled  to  an- 
nounce their  coming,  and  then  rode  on  to  the  stable 
to  unsaddle  their  horses.  About  the  supper  table 
all  gathered  with  the  exception  of  Bud  Mansie.  So 
they  waited  the  meal  and  each  from  time  to  time 
stole  a  glance  at  the  fifth  plate  where  Bud  should  sit. 

It  was  Jack  who  finally  stirred  herself  from  her 
dumb  gloom  to  take  up  that  fifth  and  carry  it  out 
of  the  room.  It  was  as  if  she  had  announced  the 
death  of  Mansie. 

After  that,  they  ate  what  they  could  and  then  went 
back  around  the  fire.  The  evening  waned,  but  it 
brought  no  sign  of  any  of  the  missing  three.  The 
wood  burned  low  in  the  fire.  The  first  to  break  the 
long  silence  was  Jim  Boone,  with  "Who  brings  in  the 
wood?" 

And  Black  Gandil  answered:  "We'll  match,  eh?" 

In  an  outburst  of  energy  the  day  before  he  dis- 
appeared Garry  Patterson  had  chopped  up  some 
wood  and  left  a  pile  of  it  at  the  corner  of  the  house. 
It  was  a  very  little  thing  to  bring  in  an  armful  of 
that  wood,  but  long-riders  do  not  love  work,  and 
now  they  started  the  matching  seriously.  The  odd 
man  was  out,  and  Pierre  went  out  on  the  first  toss 
of  the  coins. 

"You  see,"  said  Gandil.  "Bad  luck  to  every  one 
but  himself." 

At  the  next  throw  Jacqueline  was  the  lucky  one, 
and  her  father  afterward.  Gandil  rose  and 
stretched  himself  leisurely,  yet  as  he  sauntered  to- 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  SHIPWRECKED    195 

ward  the  door  his  backward  glance  at  Pierre  was 
black  indeed.  He  glanced  curiously  toward  Jack — 
who  looked  away  sharply — and  then  turned  his  eyes 
to  her  father. 

The  latter  was  considering  him  with  a  gloomy, 
foreboding  stare  and  considering  over  and  over 
again,  as  Pierre  le  Rouge  well  knew,  the  prophecy 
of  Black  Morgan  Gandil. 

He  fell  in  turn  into  a  solemn  brooding,  and  many 
a  picture  out  of  the  past  came  up  beside  him  and 
stood  near  till  he  could  almost  feel  its  presence.  He 
was  roused  by  the  creaking  of  the  floor  beneath  the 
ponderous  step  of  Jim  Boone,  who  flung  the  door 
open  and  shouted:  "Oh,  Morgan.*' 

In  the  silence  he  turned  and  stared  back  at  Pierre. 

"What's  up  with  Gandil  ?" 

uGod  knows,  not  I." 

Pierre  rose  and  ran  from  the  room  and  around 
the  side  of  the  building.  There  by  the  woodpile  lay 
the  prostrate  body.  It  was  a  mere  limp  weight 
when  he  turned  and  raised  it  in  his  arms.  So  he 
walked  back  into  the  house  carrying  all  that  was 
left  of  Black  Morgan  Gandil,  and  placed  his  burden 
on  a  bunk  at  the  side  of  the  room. 

There  had  been  no  outcry  from  either  Jim  Boone 
or  his  daughter,  but  they  came  quickly  to  him,  and 
Jacqueline  pressed  her  ear  over  the  heart  of  the  hurt 
man. 

She  said:  "He's  still  alive,  but  nearly  gone. 
Where's  the  wound?" 

They  found  it  when  they  drew  off  his  coat — a 
small  cut  high  on  the  right  breast,  and  another  lower 


196         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

and  more  to  the  left.  Either  of  them  would  been 
fatal,  and  about  each  the  flesh  was  discolored  where 
the  hilt  of  the  knife  or  the  fist  of  the  striker  had 
driven  home  the  blade. 

They  stood  back  and  made  no  hopeless  effort  to 
save  him.  It  was  uncanny  that  Black  Morgan  Gan- 
dil,  after  all  of  his  battles,  should  die  without  a  strug- 
gle in  this  way.  And  it  had  been  no  cowardly  attack 
from  the  rear.  Both  wounds  were  in  the  front.  A 
hope  came  to  them  when  his  color  increased  at  one 
time,  but  it  was  for  only  a  moment;  it  went  out 
again  as  if  some  one  were  erasing  paint  from  his 
cheeks. 

But  just  as  they  were  about  to  turn  away  his  body 
stirred  with  a  slight  convulsion,  the  eyes  opened 
wide,  and  he  strove  to  speak.  A  red  froth  came  on 
his  lips.  He  made  another  desperate  effort,  and 
twisting  himself  onto  one  elbow  pointed  a  rigid  arm 
at  Pierre.  He  gasped:  "McGurk— God!"  and 
dropped.  He  was  dead  before  his  head  touched  the 
blanket. 

It  was  Jacqueline  who  closed  the  staring  eyes,  for 
the  two  men  were  frozen  where  they  stood.  They 
had  heard  the  story  of  Patterson  and  Branch  and 
Mansie  in  one  word  from  the  lips  of  the  dying  man. 

McGurk  was  back.  McGurk  was  prowling  about 
the  last  of  the  gang  of  Boone,  and  the  lone  wolf 
had  pulled  down  four  of  the  band  one  by  one  on  suc- 
cessive days.  Only  two  remained,  and  these  two 
looked  at  one  another  with  a  common  thought. 

"The  lights  1"  cried  Jacqueline,  turning  from  the 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  SHIPWRECKED    197 

body  of  Gandil.  "He  can  shoot  us  down  through 
the  windows  at  his  leisure." 

"But  he  won't,"  said  her  father.  "I've  lived  too 
long  with  the  name  of  McGurk  in  my  ears  not  to 
know  the  man.  He'll  never  kill  by  stealth,  but 
openly  and  man  to  man.  I  know  him,  damn  him. 
He'll  wait  till  he  meets  us  alone,  and  then  we'll  finish 
as  poor  Gandil,  there,  or  Patterson  and  Branch  and 
Bud  Mansie,  all  of  them  fallen  somewhere  in  the 
mountains  with  the  buzzards  left  to  bury  'em.  That's 
how  we'll  finish  with  McGurk  on  our  trail.  And 
you — Gandil  was  right — it's  you  that's  brought  him 
on  us.  A  shipwrecked  man — by  God,  Gandil  was 
right!" 

His  right  hand  froze  on  the  butt  of  his  gun  and 
his  face  convulsed  with  impotent  rage,  for  he  knew, 
as  both  the  others  knew,  that  long  before  that  gun 
was  clear  of  the  holster  the  bullet  from  Pierre's 
gun  would  be  on  its  way.  But  Pierre  threw  his  arms 
wide,  and  standing  so,  his  shadow  made  a  black  cross 
on  the  wall  behind  him.  He  even  smiled  to  tempt 
the  big  man  further. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

JACQUELINE  WAIT8 

JACQUELINE  ran  between  and  caught  the  hand  of 
her  father,  crying: 

"Are  you  going  to  finish  the  work  of  McGurk 
before  he  has  a  chance  to  start  it?  He  hunted  the 
rest  down  one  by  one.  Dad,  if  you  put  out  Pierre 
what  is  left?  Can  you  face  that  devil  alone?" 

And  the  old  man  groaned:  "But  it's  his  luck  that's 
ruined  me.  It's  his  damned  luck  which  has  broken 
up  the  finest  fellowship  that  ever  mocked  at  law  on 
the  ranges.  Oh,  Jack,  the  heart  in  me's  broken.  I 
wish  to  God  that  I  lay  where  Gandil  lies.  What's 
the  use  of  fighting  any  longer?  No  man  can  stand 
up  against  McGurk!" 

And  the  cold  which  had  come  in  the  blood  of 
Pierre  agreed  with  him.  He  was  a  slayer  of  men, 
but  McGurk  was  a  devil  incarnate.  His  father  had 
died  at  the  hand  of  this  lone  rider;  it  was  fitting,  it 
was  fate  that  he  himself  should  die  in  the  same  way. 
The  girl  looked  from  face  to  face,  and  sensed  their 
despondency.  It  seemed  that  their  fear  gave  her  the 
greater  courage.  Her  face  flushed  as  she  stood  glar- 
ing her  scorn. 

"The  yellow  streak  took  a  long  time  in  showin', 
but  it's  in  you,  all  right,  Pierre  le  Rouge." 

198 


JACQUELINE  WAITS  199 

"YouVc  hated  me  ever  since  the  dance,  Jack. 
Why?" 

"Because  I  knew  you  were  yellow — like  this!" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  like  one  who  gives  up 
the  fight  against  a  woman,  and  seeing  it,  she  changed 
suddenly  and  made  a  gesture  with  both  hands  to- 
ward him,  a  sudden  gesture  filled  with  grace  and  a 
queer  tenderness. 

She  said:  "Pierre,  have  you  forgotten  that  when 
you  were  only  a  boy  you  stood  up  to  McGurk  and 
drew  blood  from  him?  Are  you  afraid  of  him 
now?" 

"I'll  take  my  chance  with  any  man — but  Mc- 
Gurk—" 

"He  has  no  cross  to  bring  him  luck." 

"Aye,  and  he  has  no  friends  for  that  luck  to  ruin. 
Look  at  Gandil,  Jack,  and  then  speak  to  me  of  the 


cross." 


"Pierre,  that  first  time  you  met  you  almost  beat 
him  to  the  draw.  Oh,  if  I  were  a  man,  I'd — Pierre, 
it  was  to  get  McGurk  that  you  rode  out  to  the  range. 
You've  been  here  six  years,  and  McGurk  is  still  alive, 
and  now  you're  ready  to  run  from  his  shadow." 

"Run?"  he  said  hotly.  "I  swear  to  God  that  as 
I  stand  here  I've  no  fear  of  death  and  no  hope  for 
the  life  ahead." 

She  sneered :  "You're  white  while  you  say  it.  Your 
will  may  be  brave,  but  your  blood's  a  coward,  Pierre. 
It  deserts  you." 

"Jack,  you  deviW 

"Aye,  you  can  threaten  me  safely.  But  if  McGurk 
were  here — " 


200         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"Let  him  come." 

"Pierre!" 

"I  mean  it." 

"Then  give  me  one  promise." 

"A  thousand  of  "em." 

"Let  me  hunt  him  with  you." 

He  stared  at  her  with  a  mute  wonder.  She  had 
never  been  so  beautiful. 

"Jack,  what  a  heart  you  have !  If  you  were  a  man 
we  could  rule  the  mountains,  you  and  I." 

"Even  as  I  am,  what  prevents  us,  Pierre?" 

And  looking  at  her  he  forgot  the  sorrow  which 
had  been  his  ever  since  he  looked  up  to  the  face 
framed  with  red-gold  hair  and  the  dark  tree  behind 
and  the  cold  stars  steady  above  it.  It  would  come 
to  him  again,  but  now  it  was  gone,  and  he  mur- 
mured, smiling:  "I  wonder?" 

They  made  their  plans  that  night,  sitting  all  three 
together.  It  was  better  to  go  out  and  hunt  the 
hunter  than  to  wait  there  and  be  tracked  down. 
Jack,  for  she  insisted  on  it,  would  ride  out  with 
Pierre  the  next  morning  and  hunt  through  the  hills 
for  the  hiding-place  of  McGurk. 

Some  covert  he  must  have,  so  as  to  be  near  his 
victims.  Nothing  else  could  explain  the  ease  with 
which  he  kept  on  their  track.  They  would  take  the 
trail,  and  Jim  Boone,  no  longer  agile  enough  to  be 
effective  on  the  trail,  would  guard  the  house'  and 
the  body  of  Gandil  in  it. 

There  was  little  danger  that  even  McGurk  would 
try  to  rush  a  hostile  house,  but  they  took  no  chances. 
The  guns  of  Jim  Boone  were  given  a  thorough  over- 


JACQUELINE  WAITS  201 

hauling,  and  he  wore  as  usual  at  his  belt  the  heavy- 
handled  hunting  knife,  a  deadly  weapon  in  a  hand- 
to-hand  fight.  Thus  equipped,  they  left  him  and 
took  the  trail. 

They  had  not  ridden  a  hundred  yards  when  a 
whistle  followed  them,  the  familiar  whistle  of  the 
gang.  They  reined  short  and  saw  big  Dick  Wilbur 
riding  his  bay  after  them,  but  at  some  distance  he 
halted  and  shouted:  "Pierre!" 

"He's  come  back  to  us !"  cried  Jack. 

"No.    It's  only  some  message." 

"Do  you  know?" 

"Yes.    Stay  here.    This  is  for  me  alone." 

And  he  rode  back  to  Wilbur,  who  swung  his  horse 
close  alongside.  However  hard  he  had  followed  in 
the  pursuit  of  happiness  and  the  golden  hair  of 
Mary  Brown,  his  face  was  drawn  with  lines  of  age 
and  his  eyes  circled  with  shadows. 

He  said:  "I've  kept  close  on  her  trail,  Pierre,  and 
the  nearest  she  has  come  to  kindness  has  been  to 
send  me  back  with  a  message  to  you." 

He  laughed  without  mirth,  and  the  sound  stopped 
abruptly. 

"This  is  the  message  in  her  own  words:  *I  love 
him,  Dick,  and  there's  nothing  in  the  world  for  me 
without  him.  Bring  him  back  to  me.  I  don't  care 
how;  but  bring  him  back.'  So  tell  Jack  to  ride  the 
trail  alone  to-day  and  go  back  with  me.  I  give  her 
up,  not  freely,  but  because  I  know  there's  no  hope 
for  me." 

But  Pierre  answered:  "Wherever  I've  gone 
there's  been  luck  for  me  and  hell  for  every  one 


202         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

around  me.  I  lived  with  a  priest,  Dick,  and  left  him 
when  I  was  nearly  old  enough  to  begin  repaying  his 
care.  I  came  South  and  found  a  father  and  lost  him 
the  same  day.  I  gambled  for  money  with  which  to 
bury  him,  and  a  man  died  that  night  and  another 
was  hurt.  I  escaped  from  the  town  by  riding  a  horse 
to  death.  I  was  nearly  killed  in  a  landslide,  and  now 
the  men  who  saved  me  from  that  are  done  for. 

"It's  all  one  story,  the  same  over  and  over.  Can 
I  carry  a  fortune  like  that  back  to  her?  Dick,  it 
would  haunt  me  by  day  and  by  night.  She  would 
be  the  next.  I  know  it  as  I  know  that  Fm  sitting 
in  the  saddle  here.  That's  my  answer.  Carry  it 
back  to  her." 

UI  won't  lie  and  tell  you  Fm  sorry,  because  Fm 
a  fool  and  still  have  a  ghost  of  a  hope,  but  this  will 
be  hard  news  to  tell  her,  and  Fd  rather  give  five 
years  of  life  than  face  the  look  that  will  come  in 
her  eyes." 

"I  know  it,  Dick." 

"But  this  is  final?" 

"It  is." 

"Then  good-bye  again,  and — God  bless  you, 
Pierre." 

"And  you,  old  fellow." 

They  swerved  their  horses  in  opposite  directions 
and  galloped  apart. 

"It  was  nothing,"  said  Pierre  to  Jack,  when  he 
came  up  with  her  and  drew  his  horse  down  to  a  trot. 
But  he  knew  that  she  had  read  his  mind,  and  for  an 
hour  they  could  not  look  each  other  in  the  face. 

But  all  day  through  the  mazes  of  canon  and  hill 


JACQUELINE  WAITS  203 

and  rolling  ground  they  searched  patiently.  There 
was  no  cranny  in  the  rocks  too  small  for  them  to 
reconnoiter  with  caution.  There  was  no  group  of 
trees  they  did  not  examine. 

Yet  it  was  not  strange  that  they  failed.  In  the 
space  of  every  square  mile  there  were  a  hundred 
hiding-places  which  might  have  served  McGurk. 
It  would  have  taken  a  month  to  comb  the  country. 
They  had  only  a  day,  and  left  the  result  to  chance, 
but  chance  failed  them.  When  the  shadows  com- 
menced to  swing  across  the  gullies  they  turned  back 
and  rode  with  downward  heads,  silent. 

One  hill  lay  between  them  and  the  old  ranch-house 
which  had  been  the  headquarters  for  their  gang  so 
many  days,  when  they  saw  a  faint  drift  of  smoke 
across  the  sky — not  a  thin  column  of  smoke  such  as 
rises  from  a  chimney,  but  a  broad  stream  of  pale 
mist,  as  if  a  dozen  chimneys  were  spouting  wood- 
smoke  at  once. 

They  exchanged  glances  and  spurred  their  horses 
up  the  last  slope.  As  always  in  a  short  spurt,  the 
long-legged  black  of  Jacqueline  out-distanced  the 
cream-colored  mare,  and  it  was  she  who  first  topped 
the  rise  of  land.  The  girl  whirled  in  her  saddle  with 
raised  arm,  screamed  back  at  Pierre,  and  rode  on  at 
a  still  more  furious  pace. 

What  he  saw  when  he  reached  a  corresponding 
position  was  the  ranch-house  wreathed  in  smoke,  and 
through  all  the  lower  windows  was  the  red  dance  of 
flames.  Before  him  fled  Jacqueline  with  all  the 
speed  of  the  black.  He  loosened  the  reins,  spoke  to 
the  mare,  and  she  responded  with  a  mighty  rush. 


204        RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

Even  that  tearing  pace  could  not  quite  take  him  up 
to  the  girl,  but  he  flung  himself  from  the  saddle  and 
was  at  her  side  when  she  ran  across  the  smoking 
veranda  and  wrenched  at  the  front  door. 

The  whole  frame  gave  back  at  her,  and  as  Pierre 
snatched  her  to  one  side  the  doorway  fell  crashing 
on  the  porch,  while  a  mighty  volume  of  smoke  burst 
out  at  them  like  a  puff  from  the  pit. 

They  stood  sputtering,  coughing,  and  choking,  and 
when  they  could  look  again  they  saw  a  solid  wall  of 
red  flame,  thick,  impenetrable,  shuddering  with  the 
breath  of  the  wind. 

While  they  stared  a  stronger  breath  of  that  wind 
tore  the  wall  of  flames  apart,  driving  it  back  in  a 
raging  tide  to  either  side.  The  fire  had  circled  the 
walls  of  the  entire  room,  but  it  had  scarcely  en- 
croached on  the  center,  and  there,  seated  at  the  table, 
was  Boone. 

He  had  scarcely  changed  from  the  position  in 
which  they  last  saw  him,  save  that  he  was  fallen 
somewhat  deeper  in  the  chair,  his  head  resting 
against  the  top  of  the  back.  He  greeted  them, 
through  that  infernal  furnace,  with  laughter,  and 
wide,  steady  eyes.  At  least  it  seemed  laughter,  for 
the  mouth  was  agape  and  the  lips  grinned  back,  but 
there  was  no  sound  from  the  lips  and  no  light  in 
the  fixed  eyes. 

Laughter  indeed  it  was,  but  it  was  the  laughter 
of  death,  as  if  the  soul  of  the  man,  in  dying,  recog- 
nized its  natural  wild  element  and  had  burst  into 
convulsive  mirth.  So  he  sat  there,  untouched  as  yet 
by  the  wide  river  of  fire,  chuckling  at  his  destiny. 


JACQUELINE  WAITS  205 

The  wall  of  fire  closed  across  the  doorway  again 
and  the  work  of  red  ruin  went  on  with  a  crashing 
of  timbers  from  the  upper  part  of  the  building. 

As  that  living  wall  shut  solidly,  Jacqueline  leaped 
forward,  shouting,  like  a  man,  words  of  hope  and 
rescue ;  Pierre  caught  her  barely  in  time — a  precari- 
ous grasp  on  the  wrist  from  which  she  nearly 
wrenched  herself  free  and  gained  the  entrance  to 
the  fire.  But  the  jerk  threw  her  off  balance  for  the 
least  fraction  of  an  instant,  and  the  next  moment  she 
was  safe  in  his  arms. 

Safe?  He  might  as  well  have  held  a  wildcat,  or 
captured  with  his  bare  hands  a  wild  eagle,  strong 
of  talon  and  beak.  She  tore  and  raged  in  a  wild 
fury. 

"Pierre,  coward,  devil !" 

"Steady,  Jack !" 

"Are  you  going  to  let  him  die?" 

"Don't  you  see?     He's  already  dead." 

"You  lie.    You  only  fear  the  fire !" 

"I  tell  you,  McGurk  has  been  here  before  us." 

Her  arm  was  freed  by  a  twisting  effort  and  she 
beat  him  furiously  across  the  face.  One  blow  dut 
his  lip  and  a  steady  trickle  of  hot  blood  left  a  taste 
of  salt  in  his  mouth. 

"You  young  fiend  1"  he  cried,  and  grasped  both 
her  wrists  with  a  crushing  force. 

She  leaned  and  gnashed  at  his  hands,  but  he 
whirled  her  about  and  held  her  from  behind,  impo- 
tent, raging  still. 

"A  hundred  McGurks  could  never  have  killed 
him!" 


206         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

There  was  a  sharp  explosion  from  the  midst  of 
the  fire. 

"See !    He's  fighting  against  his  death!" 

"No!    No!"    It's  only  the  falling  of  a  timber!" 

Yet  with  a  panic  at  his  heart  he  knew  that  it  was 
the  sharp  crack  of  a  firearm. 

"Liar  again!  Pierre,  for  God's  sake,  do  some- 
thing for  him.  Father!  He's  fighting  for  his  life!" 

Another  and  another  explosion  from  the  midst 
of  the  fire.  He  understood  then. 

"The  flames  have  reached  his  guns.  That's  all, 
Jack.  Don't  you  see?  We'd  be  throwing  ourselves 
away  to  run  into  those  flames." 

Realization  came  to  her  at  last.  A  heavy  weight 
slumped  down  suddenly  over  his  arms.  He  held 
her  easily,  lightly.  Her  head  had  tilted  back,  and 
the  red  flare  of  the  fire  beat  across  her  face  and 
throat.  The  roar  of  the  flames  shut  out  all  other 
thought  of  the  world  and  cast  a  wide  inferno  of  light 
around  them. 

Higher  and  higher  rose  the  fires,  and  the  wind 
cut  off  great  fragments  and  hurried  them  off  into  the 
night,  blowing  them,  it  seemed,  straight  up  against 
the  piled  thunder  of  the  clouds.  Then  the  roof 
sagged,  swayed,  and  fell  crashing,  while  a  vast  cloud 
of  sparks  and  livid  fires  shot  up  a  hundred  feet  into 
the  air.  It  was  as  if  the  soul  of  old  Boone  had  de- 
parted in  that  final  flare. 

It  started  the  girl  into  sudden  life,  surprising 
Pierre,  so  that  she  managed  to  wrench  herself  free 
and  ran  from  him.  He  sprang  after  her  with  a 
shout,  fearing  that  in  her  hysteria  she  might  fling 


JACQUELINE  WAITS  207 

herself  into  the  fire,  but  that  was  not  her  purpose. 
Straight  to  the  black  horse  she  ran,  swung  into  the 
saddle  with  the  ease  of  a  man,  and  rode  furiously 
off  through  the  falling  of  the  night. 

He  watched  her  with  a  curious  closing  of  loneli- 
ness like  a  hand  about  his  heart.  He  had  failed, 
and  because  of  that  failure  even  Jacqueline  was  leav- 
ing him.  It  was  strange,  for  since  the  loss  of  the 
girl  of  the  yellow  hair  and  those  deep  blue  eyes,  he 
had  never  dreamed  that  another  thing  in  life  could 
pain  him. 

So  at  length  he  mounted  the  mare  again  and  rode 
slowly  down  the  hill  and  out  toward  the  distant 
ranges,  trotting  mile  after  mile  with  downward  head, 
not  caring  even  if  McGurk  should  cross  him,  for 
surely  this  was  the  final  end  of  the  world  to  Pierre 
le  Rouge. 

About  midnight  he  halted  at  last,  for  the  uneasy 
sway  of  the  mare  showed  that  she  was  nearly  dead 
on  her  feet  with  weariness.  He  found  a  convenient 
place  for  a  camp,  built  his  fire,  and  wrapped  his 
blanket  about  him  without  thinking  of  food. 

He  never  knew  how  long  he  sat  there,  for  his 
thoughts  circled  the  world  and  back  again  and  found 
all  a  prospect  of  desert  before  him  and  behind,  until 
a  sound,  a  vague  sound  out  of  the  night  startled  him 
into  alertness.  He  slipped  from  beside  the  fire  and 
into  the  shadow  of  a  steep  rock,  watching  with  eyes 
that  almost  pierced  the  dark  on  all  sides. 

And  there  he  saw  her  creeping  up  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  firelight,  prone  on  her  hands  and  knees,  drag- 
ging herself  up  like  a  young  wildcat  hunting  prey; 


208         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

it  was  the  glimmer  of  her  eyes  that  he  caught  first 
through  the  gloom.  A  cold  thought  came  to  him 
that  she  had  returned  with  her  gun  ready. 

Inch  by  inch  she  came  closer,  and  now  he  was 
aware  of  her  restless  glances  probing  on  all  sides  of 
the  camp-fire.  Silence — only  the  crackling  of  a 
pitchy  stick.  And  then  he  heard  a  muffled  sound, 
soft,  soft  as  the  beating  of  a  heart  in  the  night,  and 
regularly  pulsing.  It  hurt  him  infinitely,  and  he 
called  gently:  "Jack,  why  are  you  weeping?" 

She  started  up  with  her  fingers  twisted  at  the  butt 
of  her  gun. 

"It's  a  lie,"  called  a  tremulous  voice.  "Why 
should  I  weep?" 

And  then  she  ran  to  him. 

"Oh,  Pierre,  I  thought  you  were  gone!" 

That  silence  which  came  between  them  was  thick 
with  understanding  greater  than  speech.  He  said 
at  last: 

"I've  made  my  plan.  I  am  going  straight  for  the 
higher  mountains  and  try  to  shake  McGurk  off  my 
trail.  There's  one  chance  in  ten  I  may  succeed,  and 
if  I  do  then  I'll  wait  for  my  chance  and  come  down 
on  him,  for  sooner  or  later  we  have  to  fight  this  out 
to  the  end." 

"I  know  a  place  he  could  never  find,"  said  Jacque- 
line. "The  old  cabin  in  the  gulley  between  the  Twin 
Bears.  We'll  start  for  it  to-night." 

"Not  we,"  he  answered.  "Jack,  here's  the  end 
of  our  riding  together." 

She  frowned  with  puzzled  wonder. 

He  explained:    "One  man  is  stronger  than   a 


JACQUELINE  WAITS  209 

dozen.  That's  the  strength  of  McGurk — that  he 
rides  alone.  He's  finished  your  father's  men. 
There's  only  Wilbur  left,  and  Wilbur  will  go  next — 
then  me!" 

She  stretched  her  hands  to  him.  She  seemed  to 
be  pleading  for  her  very  life. 

"But  if  he  finds  us  and  has  to  fight  us  both — I 
shoot  as  straight  as  a  man,  Pierre!" 

"Straighter  than  most.  And  you're  a  better  pal 
than  any  I've  ever  ridden  with.  But  I  must  go 
alone.  It's  only  a  lone  wolf  that  will  ever  bring 
down  McGurk.  Think  how  he's  rounded  us  up  like 
a  herd  of  cattle  and  brought  us  down  one  by  one." 

"By  getting  each  man  alone  and  killing  him  from 
behind." 

"From  the  front,  Jack.  No,  he's  fought  square 
with  each  one.  The  wounds  of  Black  Gandil  were 
all  in  front,  and  when  McGurk  and  I  meet  it's  going 
to  be  face  to  face." 

Her  tone  changed,  softened:  "But  what  of  me, 
Pierre?" 

"You  have  to  leave  this  life.  Go  down  to  the  city, 
Jack.  Live  like  a  woman ;  marry  some  lucky  fellow ; 
be  happy." 

"Can  you  leave  me  so  easily?" 

"No,  it's  hard,  devilish  hard  to  part  with  a  pal 
like  you,  Jack;  but  all  the  rest  of  my  life  I've  got 
hard  things  to  face,  partner." 

"Partner!"  she  repeated  with  an  indescribable  em- 
phasis. "Pierre,  I  can't  leave  you." 

"Why?" 

"I'm  afraid  to  go.    Let  me  stay!" 


210        RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

He  said  gloomily:  "No  good  will  come  of  it." 

"I'll  never  trouble  you — never !" 

"No,  the  bad  luck  comes  on  the  people  who  are 
with  me,  but  never  on  me.  It's  struck  them  all  down, 
one  by  one ;  your  turn  is  next,  Jack.  If  I  could  leave 
the  cross  behind — " 

He  covered  his  face,  and  groaned:  "But  I  don't 
dare;  I  don't  dare!  I  have  to  face  McGurk.  Jack, 
I  hate  myself  for  it,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  afraid 
of  McGurk,  afraid  of  that  damned  white  face,  that 
lowered,  fluttering  eyelid,  that  sneering  mouth. 
Without  the  cross  to  bring  me  luck,  how  could  I  meet 
him?  But  while  I  keep  the  cross  there's  ruin  and 
hell  without  end  for  every  one  with  me." 

She  was  white  and  shaking.  She  said:  "I'm  not 
afraid.  I've  one  friend  left;  there's  nothing  else  to 
care  for." 

"So  it's  to  be  this  way,  Jack?" 

"This  way,  and  no  other." 

"Partner,  I'm  glad.  My  God,  Jack,  what  a  man 
you  would  have  made  I" 

Their  hands  met  and  clung  together,  and  her  head 
had  drooped,  perhaps  in  acquiescence. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  GAME  OF  SUPPOSE 

DICK  WILBUR,  telling  Mary  how  Pierre  had  cut 
himself  adrift,  did  not  even  pretend  to  sorrow,  and 
she  listened  to  him  with  her  eyes  fixed  steadily  on 
his  own.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  shown  neither 
hope  nor  excitement  from  the  moment  he  came  back 
to  her  and  started  to  tell  his  message.  But  if  she 
showed  neither  hope  nor  excitement  for  herself, 
surely  she  gave  Dick  still  fewer  grounds  for  any  op- 
timistic foresights. 

So  he  finished  gloomily:  "And  as  far  as  I  can  make 
out,  Pierre  is  right.  There's  some  rotten  bad  luck 
that  follows  him.  It  may  not  be  the  cross — I  don't 
suppose  you  believe  in  superstition  like  that,  Miss 
Brown?" 

She  said:  "It  saved  my  life." 

"The  cross?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  Pierre — you  mean — you  met  before  the 
dance — you  mean — " 

He  was  stammering  so  that  he  couldn't  finish  his 
thoughts,  and  she  broke  in:  "If  he  will  not  come  to 
me,  then  I  must  go  to  him." 

"Follow  Pierre  le  Rouge?"  queried  Wilbur. 
"Miss  Brown,  you're  an  optimist.  But  that's  be- 


2i2        RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

cause  youVe  never  seen  him  ride.  I  consider  it  a 
good  day's  work  to  start  out  with  him  and  keep 
within  sight  till  night,  but  as  for  following  and  over- 
taking him — ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !" 

He  laughed  heartily  at  the  thought. 

And  she  smiled  a  little  sadly,  answering:  "But  I 
have  the  most  boundless  patience  in  the  world.  He 
may  gallop  all  the  way,  but  I  will  walk,  and  keep  on 
walking,  and  reach  him  in  the  end.  I  am  not  very 
strong,  but — " 

Her  hands  moved  out  as  though  testing  their 
power,  gripping  at  the  air. 

"Where  will  you  go  to  hunt  for  him?" 

*'I  don't  know.  But  every  evening,  when  I  look 
out  at  the  sunset  hills,  with  the  purple  along  the  val- 
leys, I  think  that  he  must  be  out  there  somewhere, 
going  toward  the  highest  ranges.  If  I  were  up  in 
that  country  I  know  that  I  could  find  him." 

"Never  in  a  thousand  years." 

"Why?" 

"Because  he's  on  the  trail — " 

"On  the  trail?" 

"Of  McGurk." 

She  started. 

What  is  this  man  McGurk?  I  hear  of  him  on 
all  sides.  If  one  of  the  men  rides  a  bucking  horse 
successfully,  some  one  is  sure  to  say:  'Who  taught 
you  what  you  know,  Bud — McGurk  ?'  And  then  the 
rest  laugh.  The  other  day  a  man  was  pointed  out 
to  me  as  an  expert  shot.  'Not  as  fast  as  McGurk,' 
it  was  said,  'but  he  shoots  just  as  straight.'  Finally 
I  asked  some  one  about  McGurk.  The  only  answer 


j 


A  GAME  OF  SUPPOSE  213 

I  received  was:  *I  hope  you  never  find  out  what  he 
is.'  Tell  me,  what  is  McGurk?" 

Wilbur  considered  the  question  gravely. 

He  said  at  last:  "McGurk  is— hell !" 

He  expanded  his  statement:  "Think  of  a  man 
who  can  ride  anything  that  walks  on  four  feet,  who 
never  misses  with  either  a  rifle  or  a  revolver,  who 
doesn't  know  the  meaning  of  fear,  and  then  imagine 
that  man  living  by  himself  and  fighting  the  rest  of 
the  world  like  a  lone  wolf.  That's  McGurk.  He's 
never  had  a  companion ;  he's  never  trusted  any  man. 
Perhaps  that's  why  they  say  about  him  the  same 
thing  that  they  say  about  me." 

"What's  that?" 

"You  will  smile  when  you  hear.  They  say  that 
McGurk  will  lose  out  in  the  end  on  account  of  some 


woman." 


"And  they  say  that  of  you?" 

"They  say  right  of  me.  I  know  it  myself.  Look 
at  me  now?  What  right  have  I  here?  If  I'm  found 
I'm  the  meat  of  the  first  man  who  sights  me,  but 
here  I  stay,  and  wait  and  watch  for  your  smiles — 
like  a  love-sick  boy.  By  Jove,  you  must  despise  me, 
Mary!" 

"I  don't  try  to  understand  you  Westerners,"  she 
answered,  "and  that's  why  I  have  never  questioned 
you  before.  Tell  me,  why  is  it  that  you  come  so 
stealthily  to  see  me  and  run  away  as  soon  as  any  one 
else  appears?" 

He  said  with  wonder:  "Haven't  you  guessed?" 

"I  don't  dare  guess." 

"But  you  have,  and  your  guess  was  right.  There's 


2i4         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

a  price  on  my  head.  By  right,  I  should  be  out  there 
on  the  ranges  with  Pierre  le  Rouge  and  McGurk. 
There's  the  only  safe  place;  but  I  saw  you  and  I 
came  down  out  of  the  wilds  and  can't  go  back.  I'll 
stay,  I  suppose,  till  I  run  my  head  into  a  halter." 

She  was  too  much  moved  to  speak  for  a  moment, 
and  then:  "You  come  to  me  in  spite  of  that?  Dick, 
whatever  you  have  done,  I  know  that  it's  only 
chance  which  made  you  go  wrong,  just  as  it  made 
Pierre.  I  wish — " 

The  dimness  of  her  eyes  encouraged  him  with  a 
great  hope.  He  stole  closer  to  her. 

He  repeated:  "You  wish — " 

"That  you  could  be  satisfied  with  a  mere  friend- 
ship. I  could  give  you  that,  Dick,  with  all  my 
heart." 

He  stepped  back  and  smiled  somewhat  grimly 
on  her. 

She  went  on:  "And  this  McGurk — what  do  you 
mean  when  you  say  that  Pierre  is  on  his  trail?" 

"Hunting  him  with  a  gun." 

She  grew  paler  and  trembled,  but  her  voice  re- 
mained steady.  It  was  always  that  way;  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  expected  her  to  quail,  some  inner 
strength  bore  her  up  and  baffled  him. 

"But  in  all  those  miles  of  mountains  they  may 
never  meet?" 

"They  can't  stay  apart  any  more  than  iron  can 
stay  away  from  a  magnet.  Listen :  half  a  dozen 
years  ago  McGurk  had  the  reputation  of  bearing  a 
charmed  life.  He  had  been  in  a  hundred  fights  and 
he  was  never  touched  with  either  a  knife  or  a  bullet. 


A  GAME  OF  SUPPOSE  215 

Then  he  crossed  Pierre  le  Rouge  when  Pierre  was 
only  a  youngster  just  come  onto  the  range.  He  put 
two  bullets  through  Pierre,  but  the  boy  shot  him 
from  the  floor  and  wounded  him  for  the  first  time. 
The  charm  of  McGurk  was  broken. 

"For  half  a  dozen  years  McGurk  was  gone;  there 
was  never  a  whisper  about  him.  Then  he  came  back 
and  went  on  the  trail  of  Pierre.  He  has  killed  the 
friends  of  Pierre  one  by  one;  Pierre  himself  is  the 
next  in  order — Pierre  or  myself.  And  when  those 
two  meet  there  will  be  the  greatest  fight  that  was 
ever  staged  in  the  mountain-desert." 

She  stood  straight,  staring  past  Wilbur  with  hun- 
gry eyes. 

"I  knew  he  needed  me.  I  have  to  save  him,  Dick. 
You  see  that?  I  have  to  bring  him  down  from  the 
mountains  and  keep  him  safe  from  McGurk.  Mc- 
Gurk! somehow  the  sound  means  what  'devil1  used 
to  mean  to  me." 

"You've  never  traveled  alone,  and  yet  you'd  go 
up  there  and  brave  everything  that  comes  for  the 
sake  of  Pierre?  What  has  he  done  to  deserve  it, 
Mary?" 

"What  have  I  done,  Dick,  to  deserve  the  care  you 
have  for  me?" 

He  stared  gloomily  on  her. 

"When  do  you  start?" 

"To-night." 

"Your  friends  won't  let  you  go." 

"I'll  steal  away  and  leave  a  note  behind  me." 

"And  you'll  go  alone?" 

She  caught  at  a  hope. 


216         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"Unless  you'll  go  with  me,  Dick?" 

"I?    Take  you— to  Pierre?" 

She  did  not  speak  to  urge  him,  but  in  the  silence 
her  beauty  pleaded  for  her. 

He  said:  "Mary,  how  lovely  you  are.  If  I  go  I 
will  have  you  for  a  few  days — for  a  week  at  most, 
all  to  myself." 

She  shook  her  head.  From  the  window  behind 
her  the  sunset  light  flared  in  her  hair,  flooding  it 
with  red-gold  against  which  her  skin  was  marvelously 
delicate  and  white,  and  the  eyes  of  the  deepest  blue. 

"All  the  time  that  we  are  gone,  you  will  never 
say  things  like  this,  Dick?" 

"I  suppose  not.  I  should  be  near  you,  but  ter- 
ribly far  away  from  your  thoughts  all  the  while. 
Still,  you  will  be  near.  You  will  be  very  beautiful, 
Mary,  riding  up  the  trail  through  the  pines,  with 
all  the  scents  of  the  evergreens  blowing  about  you, 
and  I — well,  I  must  go  back  to  a  second  childhood 
and  play  a  game  of  suppose — " 

"A  game  of  what?" 

"Of  supposing  that  you  are  really  mine,  Mary, 
and  riding  out  into  the  wilderness  for  my  sake." 

She  stepped  a  little  closer,  peering  into  his  face. 

"No  matter  what  you  suppose,  I'm  sure  you'll 
leave  that  part  of  it  merely  a  game,  Dick !" 

He  laughed  suddenly,  though  the  sound  broke  off 
as  short  and  sharp  as  it  began. 

"Haven't  I  played  a  game  all  my  life  with  the 
fair  ladies?  And  have  I  anything  to  show  for  it 
except  laughter?  I'll  go  with  you,  Mary,  if  you'll 
let  me." 


A  GAME  OF  SUPPOSE  217 

"Dick,  you've  a  heart  of  gold!  What  shall  I 
take?" 

"I'll  make  the  pack  up,  and  I'll  be  back  here  an 
hour  after  dark  and  whistle.  Like  this — " 

And  he  gave  the  call  of  Boone's  gang. 

"I  understand.  I'll  be  ready.  Hurry,  Dick,  for 
we've  very  little  time." 

He  hesitated,  then:  "All  the  time  we're  on  the 
trail  you  must  be  far  from  me,  and  at  the  end  of  it 
will  be  Pierre  le  Rouge — and  happiness  for  you. 
Before  we  start,  Mary,  I'd  like  to — " 

It  seemed  that  she  read  his  mind,  for  she  slipped 
suddenly  inside  his  arms,  kissed  him,  and  was  gone 
from  the  room.  He  stood  a  moment  with  a  hand 
raised  to  his  face. 

"After  all,"  he  muttered,  "that's  enough  to  die 
for,  and — "  He  threw  up  his  long  arms  in  a  gesture 
of  infinite  resignation. 

"The  will  of  God  be  done!"  said  Wilbur,  and 
laughed  again. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  TRAIL 

SHE  was  ready,  crouched  close  to  the  window  of 
her  room,  when  the  signal  came,  but  first  she  was 
not  sure,  because  the  sound  was  as  faint  as  a  mem- 
ory. Moreover,  it  might  have  been  a  freakish 
whistling  in  the  wind,  which  rose  stronger  and 
stronger.  It  had  piled  the  thunder-clouds  high  and 
higher,  and  now  and  again  a  heavy  drop  of  rain 
tapped  at  her  window  like  a  thrown  pebble. 

So  she  waited,  and  at  last  heard  the  whistle  a  sec- 
ond time,  unmistakably  clear.  In  a  moment  she  was 
hurrying  down  to  the  stable,  climbed  into  the  saddle, 
and  rode  at  a  cautious  trot  out  among  the  sand-hills. 

For  a  time  she  saw  no  one,  and  commenced  to  fear 
that  the  whole  thing  had  been  a  grucsomely  real, 
practical  jest.  So  she  stopped  her  horse  and  imi- 
tated the  signal  whistle  as  well  as  she  could.  It  was 
repeated  immediately  behind  her — almost  in  her  ear, 
and  she  turned  to  make  out  the  dark  form  of  a  tall 
horseman. 

"A  bad  night  for  the  start,"  called  Wilbur.  "Do 
you  want  to  wait  till  to-morrow?" 

She  could  not  answer  for  a  moment,  the  wind 
whipping  against  her  face,  while  a  big  drop  stung 
her  lips. 

218 


THE  TRAIL  219 

She  said  at  length :  "Would  a  night  like  this  stop 
Pierre— or  McGurk?" 

For  answer  she  heard  his  laughter. 

"Then  I'll  start.    I  must  never  stop  for  weather." 

He  rode  up  beside  her. 

"This  is  the  start  of  the  finish." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Nothing.  But  somewhere  on  this  ride,  I've  an 
idea  a  question  will  be  answered  for  me." 

"What  question?" 

Instead  of  replying  he  said :  "YouVe  got  a  slicker 
on?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  follow  me.  We'll  gallop  into  the  wind  a 
while  and  get  the  horses  warmed  up.  Afterward 
we'll  take  the  valley  of  the  Old  Crow  and  follow  it 
up  to  the  crest  of  the  range." 

His  horse  lunged  out  ahead  of  hers,  and  she  fol- 
lowed, leaning  far  forward  against  a  wind  that  kept 
her  almost  breathless.  For  several  minutes  they 
cantered  steadily,  and  before  the  end  of  the  gallop 
she  was  sitting  straight  up,  her  heart  beating  fast, 
a  faint  smile  on  her  lips,  and  the  blood  running  hot 
in  her  veins.  For  the  battle  w^s  begun,  she  knew, 
by  that  first  sharp  gallop,  and  here  at  the  start  she 
felt  confident  of  her  strength.  When  she  met  Pierre 
she  could  force  him  to  turn  back  with  her. 

Wilbur  checked  his  horse  to  a  trot;  they  climbed 
a  hill,  and  just  as  the  rain  broke  on  them  with  a 
rattling  gust  they  swung  into  the  valley  of  the  Old 
Crow.  Above  them  in  the  sky  the  thunder  rode;  the 
rain  whipped  against  the  rocks  like  the  rattle  of  a 


220         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

thousand  flying  hoofs;  and  now  and  again  the  light- 
ning flashed  across  the  sky. 

Through  that  vast  accompaniment  they  moved 
on  in  the  night  straight  toward  the  heart  of  the 
mountains  which  sprang  into  sight  with  every  flash 
of  the  lightning  and  seemed  toppling  almost  above 
them,  yet  they  were  weary  miles  away,  as  she  knew. 

By  those  same  flashes  she  caught  glimpses  of  the 
face  of  Wilbur.  She  hardly  knew  him.  She  had 
seen  him  always  big,  gentle,  handsome,  good-nat- 
ured ;  now  he  was  grown  harder,  with  a  stern  set  of 
the  jaw,  and  a  certain  square  outline  of  face.  It 
had  seemed  impossible.  Now  she  began  to  guess 
how  the  law  could  have  placed  a  price  upon  his  head. 
For  he  belonged  out  here  with  the  night  and  the 
crash  of  the  storm,  with  free,  strong,  lawless  things 
about  him. 

An  awe  grew  up  in  her,  and  she  was  filled  half 
with  dread  and  half  with  curiosity  at  the  thought 
of  facing  him,  as  she  must  many  a  time,  across  the 
camp-fire.  In  a  way,  he  was  the  ladder  by  which 
she  climbed  to  an  understanding  of  Pierre  le  Rouge, 
Red  Pierre.  For  that  Pierre,  she  knew,  was  to  big 
Wilbur  what  Dick  himself  was  to  the  great  mass 
of  law-abiding  men.  Accident  had  cut  Wilbur  adrift, 
but  it  was  more  than  accident  which  started  Pierre 
on  the  road  to  outlawry;  it  was  the  sheer  love  of 
dangerous  chance,  the  glory  in  fighting  other  men. 
This  was  Pierre. 

What  was  the  man  for  whom  Pierre  hunted? 
What  was  McGurk?  Not  even  the  description  of 
Wilbur  had  proved  very  enlightening.  Her  thought 


THE  TRAIL  221 

of  him  was  vague,  nebulous,  and  taking  many  forms. 
Sometimes  he  was  tall  and  dark  and  stern.  Again 
he  was  short  and  heavy  and  somewhat  deformed  of 
body.  But  always  he  was  everywhere  in  the  night 
about  her. 

She  guessed  at  his  voice  rumbling  through  an  echo 
of  the  thunder;  she  heard  the  sound  of  his  pursuing 
horse  in  the  rattle  of  the  following  rain.  Her  work 
was  to  keep  this  relentless  lone  rider  away  from 
Pierre ;  it  was  as  if  she  strove  to  keep  the  ocean  tide 
away  from  the  shore.  They  seemed  doomed  to  meet 
and  shock. 

All  this  she  pondered  as  they  began  the  ride  up 
the  valley,  but  as  the  long  journey  continued,  and  the 
hours  and  the  miles  rolled  past  them,  a  racking 
weariness  possessed  her  and  numbed  her  mind.  She 
began  to  wish  desperately  for  morning,  but  even 
morning  might  not  bring  an  end  to  the  ride.  That 
would  be  at  the  will  of  the  outlaw  beside  her.  Fi- 
nally, only  one  picture  remained  to  her.  It  stabbed 
across  the  darkness  of  her  mind — the  red  hair  and 
the  keen  eyes  of  Pierre. 

The  storm  decreased  as  they  went  up  the  valley. 
Finally  the  wind  fell  off  to  a  pleasant  breeze,  and 
the  clouds  of  the  rain  broke  in  the  center  of  the 
heavens  and  toppled  west  in  great  tumbling  masses. 
In  half  an  hour's  time  the  sky  was  clear,  and  a  cold 
moon  looked  down  on  the  blue-black  evergreens, 
shining  faintly  with  the  wet,  and  on  the  dead  black 
of  the  mountains. 

For  the  first  time  in  all  that  ride  her  companion 
spoke:  "In  an  hour  the  gray  will  begin  in  the  east. 


222         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

Suppose  we  camp  here,  eat,  get  a  bit  of  sleep,  and 
then  start  again?" 

As  if  she  had  waited  for  permission,  fighting 
against  her  weariness,  she  now  let  down  the  bars  of 
her  will,  and  a  tingling  stupor  swept  over  her  body 
and  broke  in  hot,  numbing  waves  on  her  brain. 

"Whatever  you  say.  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  ride 
much  further  to-night." 

"Look  up  at  me." 

She  raised  her  head. 

"No ;  you're  all  in.  But  youVe  made  a  game  ride. 
I  never  dreamed  there  was  so  much  iron  in  you. 
We'll  make  our  fire  just  inside  the  trees  and  carry 
water  up  from  the  river,  eh?" 

A  scanty  growth  of  the  evergreens  walked  over 
the  hills  and  skirted  along  the  valley,  leaving  a 
broad,  sandy  waste  in  the  center  where  the  river  at 
times  swelled  with  melted  snow  or  sudden  rains  and 
rushed  over  the  lower  valley  in  a  broad,  muddy 
flood. 

At  the  edge  of  the  forest  he  picketed  the  horses 
in  a  little  open  space  carpeted  with  wet,  dead  grass. 
It  took  him  some  time  to  find  dry  wood.  So  he 
wrapped  her  in  blankets  and  left  her  sitting  on  a 
saddle.  As  the  chill  left  her  body  she  began  to  grow 
delightfully  drowsy,  and  vaguely  she  heard  the  crack 
of  his  hatchet.  He  had  found  a  rotten  stump  and 
was  tearing  off  the  wet  outer  bark  to  get  at  the  dry 
wood  within. 

After  that  it  was  only  a  moment  before  a  fire 
sputtered  feebly  and  smoked  at  her  feet.  She 
watched  it,  only  half  conscious,  in  her  utter  weari- 


THE  TRAIL  223 

ness,  and  seeing  dimly  the  hollow-eyed  face  of  the 
man  who  stooped  above  the  blaze.  Now  it  grew 
quickly,  and  increased  to  a  sharp-pointed  pyramid 
of  red  flame.  The  bright  sparks  showered  up,  crack- 
ling and  snapping,  and  when  she  followed  their 
flight  she  saw  the  darkly  nodding  tops  of  the  ever- 
greens above  her. 

With  the  fire  well  under  way,  he  took  the  coffee- 
pot to  get  water  from  the  river,  and  left  her  to  fry 
the  bacon.  The  fumes  of  the  frying  meat  wakened 
her  at  once,  and  brushed  even  the  thought  of  her 
exhaustion  from  her  mind.  She  was  hungry — rav- 
enously hungry. 

So  she  tended  the  bacon  slices  with  care  until  they 
grew  brown  and  crisped  and  curled  at  the  edges. 
After  that  she  removed  the  pan  from  the  fire,  and 
it  was  not  until  then  that  she  began  to  wonder  why 
Wilbur  was  so  long  in  returning  with  the  water. 
The  bacon  grew  cold;  she  heated  it  again  and  was 
mightily  tempted  to  taste  one  piece  of  it,  but  re- 
strained herself  to  wait  for  Dick. 

Still  he  did  not  come.  She  stood  up  and  called, 
her  high  voice  rising  sharp  and  small  through  the 
trees.  It  seemed  that  some  sound  answered,  so  she 
smiled  and  sat  down.  Ten  minutes  passed  and  he 
was  still  gone.  A  cold  alarm  swept  over  her  at  that. 
She  dropped  the  pan  and  ran  out  from  the  trees. 

Everywhere  was  the  bright  moonlight — over  the 
wet  rocks,  and  sand,  and  glimmering  on  the  slow 
tide  of  the  river,  but  nowhere  could  she  see  Wilbur, 
or  a  form  that  looked  like  a  man.  Then  the  moon- 
light glinted  on  something  at  the  edge  of  the  river. 


224         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

She  ran  to  it  and  found  the  coffee-can  half  in  the 
water  and  partially  filled  with  sand. 

A  wild  temptation  to  scream  came  over  her,  but 
the  tight  muscles  of  her  throat  let  out  no  sound. 
But  if  Wilbur  were  not  here,  where  had  he  gone? 
He  could  not  have  vanished  into  thin  air.  The  ripple 
of  the  water  washing  on  the  sand  replied.  Yes,  that 
current  might  have  rolled  his  body  away. 

To  shut  out  the  grim  sight  of  the  river  she  turned. 
Stretched  across  the  ground  at  her  feet  she  saw 
clearly  the  impression  of  a  body  in  the  moist  sand. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

A   HINT  OF   WHITE 


THE  heels  had  left  two  deeply  defined  gouges  in 
the  ground;  there  was  a  sharp  hollow  where  the 
head  had  lain,  and  a  broad  depression  for  the  shoul- 
ders. It  was  the  impression  of  the  body  of  a  man — 
a  large  man  like  Wilbur.  Any  hope,  any  doubt  she 
might  have  had,  slipped  from  her  mind,  and  despair 
rolled  into  it  with  an  even,  sullen  current,  like  the 
motion  of  the  river. 

It  is  strange  what  we  do  with  our  big  moments 
of  fear  and  sorrow  and  even  of  joy.  Now  Mary 
stooped  and  carefully  washed  out  the  coffee-pot,  and 
filled  it  again  with  water  higher  up  the  bank;  and 
turned  back  toward  the  edge  of  the  trees. 

It  was  all  subconscious,  this  completing  of  the 
task  which  Wilbur  had  begun,  and  subconscious  still 
was  her  careful  rebuilding  of  the  fire  till  it  flamed 
high,  as  though  she  were  setting  a  signal  to  recall 
the  wanderer.  But  the  flame,  throwing  warmth  and 
red  light  across  her  eyes,  recalled  her  sharply  to  re- 
ality, and  she  looked  up  and  saw  the  dull  dawn 
brightening  beyond  the  dark  evergreens. 

Guilt,  too,  swept  over  her,  for  she  remembered 
what  big,  handsome  Dick  Wilbur  had  said:  He 
would  meet  his  end  through  a  woman.  Now  it  had 
come  to  him,  and  through  her. 

225 


<226         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

She  cringed  at  the  thought,  for  what  was  she  that 
a  man  should  die  in  her  service?  She  raised  her 
hands  with  a  moan  to  the  nodding  tops  of  the  trees, 
to  the  vast,  black  sky  above  them,  and  the  full  knowl- 
edge of  Wilbur's  strength  came  to  her,  for  had  he 
not  ridden  calmly,  defiantly,  into  the  heart  of  this 
wilderness,  confident  in  his  power  to  care  both  for 
himself  and  for  her?  But  she!  What  could  she  do 
wandering  by  herself?  The  image  of  Pierre  le 
Rouge  grew  dim  indeed  and  sad  and  distant. 

She  looked  about  her  at  the  pack,  which  had  been 
distributed  expertly,  and  disposed  on  the  ground  by 
Wilbur.  She  could  not  even  lash  it  in  place  behind 
the  saddle.  So  she  drew  the  blanket  once  more 
around  her  shoulders  and  sat  down  to  think. 

She  might  return  to  the  house — doubtless  she 
could  find  her  way  back.  And  leave  Pierre  in  the 
heart  of  the  mountains,  surely  lost  to  her  forever. 
She  made  a  determination,  sullen,  like  a  child,  to 
ride  on  and  on  into  the  wilderness,  and  let  fate  take 
care  of  her.  The  pack  she  could  bundle  together 
as  best  she  might;  she  would  live  as  she  might;  and 
for  a  guide  there  would  be  the  hunger  for  Pierre. 

So  she  ended  her  thoughts  with  a  hope ;  her  head 
nodded  lower,  and  she  slept  the  deep,  deep  sleep  of 
the  exhausted  mind  and  the  lifeless  body.  She  woke 
hours  later  with  a  start,  instantly  alert,  quivering 
with  fear  and  life  and  energy,  for  she  felt  like  one 
who  has  gone  to  sleep  with  voices  in  his  ear. 

While  she  slept  some  one  had  been  near  her;  she 
could  have  sworn  it  before  her  startled  eyes  glanced 
around. 


A  HINT  OF  WHITE  227 

And  though  she  kept  whispering,  with  white  lips, 
"No,  no;  it  is  impossible!"  yet  there  was  evidence 
which  proved  it.  The  fire  should  have  burned  out, 
but  instead  it  flamed  more  brightly  than  ever,  and 
there  was  a  little  heap  of  fuel  laid  conveniently  close. 
Moreover,  both  horses  were  saddled,  and  the  pack 
lashed  on  the  saddle  of  her  own  mount. 

Whatever  man  or  demon  had  done  this  work  evi- 
dently intended  that  she  should  ride  Wilbur's  beau- 
tiful bay.  Yes,  for  when  she  went  closer,  drawn  by 
her  wonder,  she  found  that  the  stirrups  had  been 
much  shortened. 

Nothing  was  forgotten  by  this  invisible  caretaker; 
he  had  even  left  out  the  cooking-tins,  and  she  found 
a  little  batter  of  flapjack  flour  mixed. 

The  riddle  was  too  great  for  solving.  Perhaps 
Wilbur  had  disappeared  merely  to  play  a  practical 
jest  on  her;  but  that  supposition  was  too  childish  to 
be  retained  an  instant.  Perhaps — perhaps  Pierre 
himself  had  discovered  her,  but  having  vowed  never 
to  see  her  again,  he  cared  for  her  like  the  invisible 
hands  in  the  old  Greek  fable. 

This,  again,  an  instinctive  knowledge  made  her 
dismiss.  If  he  were  so  close,  loving  her,  he  could 
not  stay  away;  she  read  in  her  own  heart,  and  knew. 
Then  it  must  be  something  else;  evil,  because  it 
feared  to  be  seen;  not  wholly  evil,  because  it  sur- 
rounded her  with  care. 

At  least  this  new  emotion  obscured  somewhat  the 
terror  and  the  sorrow  of  Wilbur's  disappearance.1 
She  cooked  her  breakfast  as  if  obeying  the  order  of 
the  unseen,  climbed  into  the  saddle  of  Wilbur's 


228         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

horse,  and  started  off  up  the  valley,  leading  her  own 
mount. 

Every  moment  or  so  she  turned  in  the  saddle  sud- 
denly in  the  hope  of  getting  a  glimpse  of  the  fol- 
lower, but  even  when  she  surveyed  the  entire  stretch 
of  country  from  the  crest  of  a  low  hill,  she  saw  noth- 
ing— not  the  least  sign  of  life. 

She  rode  slowly,  this  day,  for  she  was  stiff  and 
sore  from  the  violent  journey  of  the  night  before, 
but  though  she  went  slowly,  she  kept  steadily  at  the 
trail.  It  was  a  broad  and  pleasant  one,  being  the 
beaten  sand  of  the  river-bottom;  and  the  horse  she 
rode  was  the  finest  that  ever  pranced  beneath  her. 

His  trot  was  as  smooth  and  springy  as  the  gallop 
of  most  horses,  and  when  she  let  him  run  over  a  few 
level  stretches,  it  was  as  if  she  had  suddenly  been 
taken  up  from  the  earth  on  wings.  There  was  some- 
thing about  the  animal,  too,  which  reminded  her  of 
its  vanished  owner;  for  it  had  strength  and  pride 
and  gentleness  at  once.  Unquestionably  it  took 
kindly  to  its  new  rider ;  for  once  when  she  dismounted 
the  big  horse  walked  up  behind  and  nuzzled  her 
shoulder. 

The  mountains  were  much  plainer  before  the  end 
of  the  day.  They  rose  sheer  up  in  wave  upon  frozen 
wave  like  water  piled  ragged  by  some  terrific  gale, 
with  the  tops  of  the  waters  torn  and  tossed  and  then 
frozen  forever  in  that  position,  like  a  fantastic  and 
gargantuan  mask  of  dreaming  terror.  It  overawed 
the  heart  of  Mary  Brown  to  look  up  to  them,  but 
there  was  growing  in  her  a  new  impulse  of  friendly 
understanding  with  all  this  scalped,  bald  region  of 


A  HINT  OF  WHITE  229 

rocks,  as  if  in  entering  the  valley  she  had  passed 
through  the  gate  which  closes  out  the  gentler  world, 
and  now  she  was  admitted  as  a  denizen  of  the  moun- 
tain-desert, that  scarred  and  ugly  asylum  for  crime 
and  fear  and  grandeur. 

Feeling  this  new  emotion,  the  old  horizons  of  her 
mind  gave  way  and  widened;  her  gentle  nature, 
which  had  known  nothing  but  smiles,  admitted  the 
meaning  of  a  frown.  Did  she  not  ride  under  the 
very  shadow  of  that  frown  with  her  two  horses? 
Was  she  not  armed  ?  She  touched  the  holster  at  her 
hip,  and  smiled.  To  be  sure,  she  could  never  hit  a 
mark  with  that  ponderous  weapon,  but  at  least  the 
pistol  gave  the  seeming  of  a  dangerous  lone  rider, 
familiar  with  the  wilds. 

It  was  about  dark,  and  she  was  on  the  verge  of 
looking  about  for  a  suitable  camping-place,  when  the 
bay  halted  sharply,  tossed  up  his  head,  and  whinnied. 
From  the  far  distance  she  thought  she  heard  the  be- 
ginning of  a  whinny  in  reply.  She  could  not  be  sure, 
but  the  possibility  made  her  pulse  quicken.  In  this 
region,  she  knew,  no  stranger  could  be  a  friend. 

So  she  started  the  bay  at  a  gallop  and  put  a  couple 
of  swift  miles  between  her  and  the  point  at  which 
she  had  heard  the  sound;  no  living  creature,  she  was 
sure,  could  have  followed  the  pace  the  bay  held  dur- 
ing that  distance.  So,  secure  in  her  loneliness,  she 
trotted  the  horse  around  a  bend  of  the  rocks  and 
came  on  the  sudden  light  of  a  camp-fire. 

It  was  too  late  to  wheel  and  gallop  away;  so  she 
remained  with  her  hand  fumbling  at  the  butt  of  the 
revolver,  and  her  wide,  blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  flicker 


23o         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

of  the  fire.  Not  a  voice  accoste3  her.  As  far  as 
she  could  peer  among  the  lithe  trunks  of  the  sap- 
lings, not  a  sign  of  a  living  thing  was  near. 

Yet  whoever  built  that  fire  must  be  near,  for  it 
was  obviously  newly  laid.  Perhaps  some  fleeing  out- 
law had  pitched  his  camp  here  and  had  been  startled 
by  her  coming.  In  that  case  he  lurked  somewhere 
in  the  woods  at  that  moment,  his  keen  eyes  fixed  on 
her,  and  his  gun  gripped  hard  in  his  hand.  Per- 
haps— and  the  thought  thrilled  her — this  little  camp 
had  been  prepared  by  the  same  power,  human  or  un- 
earthly, which  had  watched  over  her  early  that 
morning. 

All  reason  and  sane  caution  warned  her  to  ride 
on  and  leave  that  camp  unmolested,  but  an  over- 
whelming, tingling  curiosity  besieged  her.  The  thin 
column  of  smoke  rose  past  the  dark  trees  like  a 
ghost,  and  reaching  the  unsheltered  space  above  the 
trees,  was  smitten  by  a  light  wind  and  jerked  away 
at  a  sharp  angle. 

She  looked  closer  and  saw  a  bed  made  of  a  great 
heap  of  the  tips  of  limbs  of  spruce,  a  bed  softer  than 
down  and  more  fragrant  than  any  manufactured 
perfume,  however  costly. 

Possibly  it  was  the  sight  of  this  bed  which  tempted 
her  down  from  the  saddle,  at  last.  With  the  reins 
over  her  arm,  she  stood  close  to  the  fire  and  warmed 
her  hands,  peering  all  the  while  on  every  side,  like 
some  wild  and  beautiful  creature  tempted  by  the  bait 
of  the  trap,  but  shrinking  from  the  scent  of  man. 

As  she  stood  there  a  broad,  yellow  moon  edged 
its  way  above  the  hills  and  rolled  up  through  the 


A  HINT  OF  WHITE  231 

black  trees  and  then  floated  through  the  sky.  Be- 
neath such  a  moon  no  harm  could  come  to  her.  It 
was  while  she  stared  at  it,  letting  her  tensed  alert- 
ness relax  little  by  little,  that  she  saw,  or  thought 
she  saw,  a  hint  of  moving  white  pass  over  the  top 
of  the  rise  of  ground  and  disappear  among  the  trees. 

She  could  not  be  sure,  but  her  first  impulse  was 
to  gather  the  reins  with  a  jerk  and  place  her  foot  in 
the  stirrup;  but  then  she  looked  back  and  saw  the 
fire,  burning  low  now  and  asking  like  a  human  voice 
to  be  replenished  from  the  heap  of  small,  broken 
fuel  near  by;  and  she  saw  also  the  softly  piled  bed 
of  evergreens. 

She  removed  her  foot  from  the  stirrup.  What 
mattered  that  imaginary  figure  of  moving  white? 
She  felt  a  strong  power  of  protection  lying  all  about 
her,  breathing  out  to  her  with  the  keen  scent  of  the 
pines,  fanning  her  face  with  the  chill  of  the  night 
breeze.  She  was  alone,  but  she  was  secure  in  the 
wilderness. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

JACK 

FOR  many  a  minute  she  waited  by  that  camp-fire, 
but  there  was  never  a  sign  of  the  builder  of  it,  though 
she  centered  all  her  will  in  making  her  eyes  and  ears 
sharper  to  pierce  through  the  darkness  and  to  gather 
from  the  thousand  obscure  whispers  of  the  forest 
any  sounds  of  human  origin.  So  she  grew  bold  at 
length  to  take  off  the  pack  and  the  saddles ;  the  camp 
was  hers,  built  for  her  coming  by  the  invisible  power 
which  surrounded  her,  which  read  her  mind,  it 
seemed,  and  chose  beforehand  the  certain  route 
which  she  must  follow. 

She  resigned  herself  to  that  force  without  ques- 
tion, and  the  worry  of  her  search  disappeared.  It 
seemed  certain  that  this  omnipotence,  whatever  it 
might  be,  was  reading  her  wishes  and  acting  with  all 
its  power  to  fulfill  them,  so  that  in  the  end  it  was 
merely  a  question  of  time  before  she  should  accom- 
plish her  mission — before  she  should  meet  Pierre  le 
Rouge  face  to  face. 

That  night  her  sleep  was  deep,  indeed,  and  she 
only  wakened  when  the  slant  light  of  the  sun  struck 
across  her  eyes.  It  was  a  bright  day,  crisp  and  chill, 
and  through  the  clear  air  the  mountains  seemed  lean- 
ing directly  above  her,  and  chief  of  all  two  peaks, 

232 


JACK  233 

almost  exactly  similar,  black  monsters  which  ruled 
the  range.  Toward  the  gorge  between  them  the 
valley  of  the  Old  Crow  aimed  its  course,  and  straight 
up  that  diminishing  canon  she  rode  all  day. 

The  broad,  sandy  bottom  changed  and  contracted 
until  the  channel  was  scarcely  wide  enough  for  the 
meager  stream  of  water,  and  beside  it  she  picked  her 
way  along  a  narrow  bridle-path  with  banks  on  either 
side,  which  became  with  every  mile  more  like  cliffs, 
walling  her  in  and  dooming  her  to  a  single  des- 
tination. 

It  was  evening  before  she  came  to  the  headwaters 
of  the  Old  Crow,  and  rode  out  into  the  gorge  be- 
tween the  two  mountains.  The  trail  failed  her  here. 
There  was  no  semblance  of  a  ravine  to  follow,  ex- 
cept the  mighty  gorge  between  the  two  peaks,  and 
into  the  dark  throat  of  this  pass  she  ventured,  like 
some  maiden  of  medieval  romance  riding  through 
a  solemn  gate  with  the  guarding  towers  tall  and 
black  on  either  side. 

The  moment  she  was  well  started  in  it  and  the 
steep  shadow  of  the  evening  fell  across  her  almost 
like  night  from  the  west,  her  heart  grew  cold  as  the 
air  of  that  lofty  region.  A  sense  of  coming  danger 
filled  her,  like  a  little  child  when  it  passes  from  a 
lighted  room  into  one  dark  and  still.  Yet  she  kept 
on,  holding  a  tight  rein,  throwing  many  a  fearful 
glance  at  the  vast  rocks  which  might  have  concealed 
an  entire  army  in  every  mile  of  their  extent. 

When  she  found  the  cabin  she  mistook  it  at  first 
for  merely  another  rock  of  singular  shape.  It  was. 
at  this  shape  that  she  stared,  and  checked  her  horse. 


234         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

and  not  till  then  did  she  note  the  faint  flicker  of  a 
light  no  brighter  or  more  distinct  than  the  phos- 
phorescent glow  of  the  eyes  of  a  hunted  beast. 

All  her  impulse  was  to  drive  her  spurs  home  and 
pass  that  place  at  a  racing  gallop,  but  she  checked 
the  impulse  sharply  and  began  to  reason.  In  the 
first  place,  it  was  doubtless  only  the  cabin  of  some 
prospector,  such  as  she  had  often  heard  of.  In  the 
second  place,  night  was  almost  upon  her,  and  she 
saw  no  desirable  camping-place,  or  at  least  any  with 
the  necessary  water  at  hand. 

What  harm  could  come  to  her?  Among  Western 
men,  she  well  knew  a  woman  is  safer  than  all  the 
law  and  the  police  of  the  settled  East  can  make  her, 
so  she  nerved  her  courage  and  advanced  toward  the 
faint,  changing  light. 

The  cabin  was  hidden  very  cunningly.  Crouched 
among  the  mighty  boulders  which  earthquakes  and 
storms  of  some  wilder,  earlier  epoch  had  torn  away 
from  the  side  of  the  crags  above,  the  house  was  like 
another  stone,  leaning  its  back  to  the  mountain  for 
support. 

When  she  drew  very  close  she  knew  that  the  light 
which  glimmered  at  the  window  must  come  from  an 
open  fire,  and  the  thought  of  a  fire  warmed  her  very 
heart.  She  hallooed,  and  receiving  no  answer,  fas- 
tened the  horses  and  entered  the  house.  The  door 
swung  to  behind  her,  as  if  of  its  own  volition  it 
wished  to  make  her  close  prisoner. 

The  place  consisted  of  one  room,  and  not  a  spa- 
cious one  at  that,  but  arranged  as  a  shelter,  not  a 
home.  The  cooking,  apparently,  was  done  over  the 


JACK  235 

open  hearth,  for  there  was  no  sign  of  any  stove, 
and,  moreover,  on  the  wall  near  the  fireplace  hung 
several  soot-blackened  pans  and  the  inevitable  coffee- 
pot 

There  were  two  bunks  built  on  opposite  sides  of 
the  room,  and  in  the  middle  a  table  was  made  of  a 
long  section  split  from  the  heart  of  a  log  by  wedges, 
apparently,  and  still  rude  and  undressed,  except  for 
the  preliminary  smoothing  off  which  had  been  done 
with  a  broad-ax. 

The  great  plank  was  supported  at  either  end  by  a 
roughly  constructed  saw-buck.  It  was  very  low,  and 
for  this  reason  two  fairly  square  boulders  of  com- 
fortable proportions  were  sufficiently  high  to  serve 
as  chairs. 

For  the  rest,  the  furniture  was  almost  too  meager 
to  suggest  human  habitation,  but  from  nails  on  the 
wall  there  depended  a  few  shirts  and  a  pair  of  chaps, 
as  well  as  a  much-battered  quirt.  But  a  bucket  of 
water  in  a  corner  suggested  cleanliness,  and  a  small, 
round,  highly  polished  steel  plate,  hanging  on  the 
wall  in  lieu  of  a  mirror,  further  fortified  her  decision 
that  the  owner  of  this  place  must  be  a  man  somewhat 
particular  as  to  his  appearance. 

Here  she  interrupted  her  observations  to  build 
up  the  fire,  which  was  flickering  down  and  apparently 
on  the  verge  of  going  out.  She  worked  busily  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  a  roaring  blaze  rewarded  her;  she 
took  off  her  slicker  to  enjoy  the  warmth,  and  in  doing 
so,  turned,  and  saw  the  owner  of  the  place  standing 
with  folded  arms  just  inside  the  door. 


236         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"Making  yourself  to  home?"  asked  the  host,  in 
a  low,  strangely  pleasant  voice. 

"Do  you  mind?"  asked  Mary  Brown.  "I  couldn't 
find  a  place  that  would  do  for  camping." 

And  she  summoned  her  most  winning  smile.  It 
was  wasted,  she  knew  at  once,  for  the  stranger  hard- 
ened perceptibly,  and  his  lip  curled  slightly  in  scorn 
or  anger.  In  all  her  life  Mary  had  never  met  a  man 
so  obdurate,  and,  moreover,  she  felt  that  he  could 
not  be  wooed  into  a  good  humor. 

"If  you'd  gone  farther  up  the  gorge,"  said  the 
other,  "you'd  of  found  the  best  sort  of  a  campin' 
place — water  and  everything." 

"Then  I'll  go,"  said  Mary,  shrinking  at  the 
thought  of  the  strange,  cold  outdoors  compared 
with  this  cheery  fire.  But  she  put  on  the  slicker  and 
started  for  the  door. 

At  the  last  moment  the  host  was  touched  with 
compunction.  He  called:  "Wait  a  minute.  There 
ain't  no  call  to  hurry.  If  you  can  get  along  here  just 
stick  around." 

For  a  moment  Mary  hesitated,  knowing  that  only 
the  unwritten  law  of  Western  hospitality  compelled 
that  speech;  it  was  the  crackle  and  flare  of  the  bright 
fire  which  overcame  her  pride. 

She  laid  off  the  slicker  again,  saying,  with  another 
smile:  "For  just  a  few  minutes,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Sure,"  said  the  other  gracelessly,  and  tossed  his 
own  slicker  onto  a  bunk. 

Covertly,  but  very  earnestly,  Mary  was  studying 
him.  He  was  hardly  more  than  a  boy — handsome, 
slender. 


JACK  237 

Now  that  handsome  face  was  under  a  doud  of 
gloom,  a  frown  on  the  forehead  and  a  sneer  on  the 
lips,  but  it  was  something  more  than  the  expression 
which  repelled  Mary.  For  she  felt  that  no  matter 
how  she  wooed  him,  she  could  never  win  the  sympa- 
thy of  this  darkly  handsome,  cruel  youth;  he  was 
aloof  from  her,  and  the  distance  between  them  could 
never  be  crossed.  She  knew  at  once  that  the  mys- 
terious bridges  which  link  men  with  women  broke 
down  in  this  case,  and  she  was  strongly  tempted  to 
leave  the  cabin  to  the  sole  possession  of  her  surly 
host. 

It  was  the  warmth  of  the  fire  which  once  more 
decided  against  her  reason,  so  she  laid  hands  on  one 
of  the  blocks  of  stone  to  roll  it  nearer  to  the  hearth. 
She  could  not  budge  it.  Then  she  caught  the  sneer- 
ing laughter  of  the  man,  and  strove  again  in  a  fury. 
It  was  no  use;  for  the  stone  merely  rocked  a  little 
and  settled  back  in  its  place  with  a  bump. 

"Here,"  said  the  boy,  "I'll  move  it  for  you.  ' 

It  was  a  hard  lift  for  him,  but  he  set  his  teeth, 
raised  the  stone  in  his  slender  hands,  and  set  it  down 
again  at  a  comfortable  distance  from  the  fire. 

"Thank  you,"  smiled  Mary,  but  the  boy  stood 
panting  against  the  wall,  and  for  answer  merely  be- 
stowed on  her  a  rather  malicious  glance  of  triumph, 
as  though  he  gloried  in  his  superior  strength  and 
despised  her  weakness. 

Some  conversation  was  absolutely  necessary,  for 
the  silence  began  to  weigh  on  her.  She  said:  "My 
name  is  Mary  Brown." 


238         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

uls  it?"  said  the  boy,  quite  without  interest. 
"You  can  call  me  Jack." 

He  sat  down  on  the  other  stone,  his  dark  face 
swept  by  the  shadows  of  the  flames,  and  rolled  a 
cigarette,  not  deftly,  but  like  one  who  is  learning 
the  mastery  of  the  art.  It  surprised  Mary,  watching 
his  fumbling  fingers.  She  decided  that  Jack  must 
be  even  younger  than  he  looked. 

She  noticed  also  that  the  boy  cast,  from  time  to 
time,  a  sharp,  rather  worried  glance  of  expectation 
toward  the  door,  as  if  he  feared  it  would  open  and 
disclose  some  important  arrival.  Furthermore, 
those  old  worn  shirts  hanging  on  the  wall  were  much 
too  large  for  the  throat  and  shoulders  of  Jack. 

Apparently,  he  lived  there  with  some  companion, 
and  a  companion  of  such  a  nature  that  he  did  not 
wish  him  to  be  seen  by  visitors.  This  explained  the 
lad's  coldness  in  receiving  a  guest;  it  also  stimulated 
Mary  to  linger  about  a  few  more  minutes. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  WHISPER  OF  THE  KNIFE 

NOT  that  she  stayed  there  without  a  growing  fear, 
but  she  still  felt  about  her,  like  the  protection  of  some 
invisible  cloak,  the  presence  of  the  strange  guide  who 
had  followed  her  up  the  valley  of  the  Old  Crow. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  boy  were  reading  her  mind. 

"See  you  got  two  horses.     Come  up  alone  ?" 

"Most  of  the  way,"  said  Mary,  and  tingled  with 
a  rather  feline  pleasure  to  see  that  her  curtness 
merely  sharpened  the  interest  of  Jack. 

The  boy  puffed  on  his  cigarette,  not  with  long, 
slow  breaths  of  inhalation  like  a  practised  smoker, 
but  with  a  puckered  face  as  though  he  feared  that 
the  fumes  might  drift  into  his  eyes. 

"Why,"  thought  Mary,  "he's  only  a  child!" 

Her  heart  warmtd  a  little  as  she  adopted  this 
view-point  of  her  surly  host.  Being  warmed,  and 
having  much  to  say,  words  came  of  themselves. 
Surely  it  would  do  no  harm  to  tell  the  story  to  this 
queer  urchin,  who  might  be  able  to  throw  some  light 
on  the  nature  of  the  invisible  protector. 

"I  started  with  a  man  for  guide."  She  fixed  a 
searching  gaze  on  the  boy.  "His  name  was  Dick 
Wilbur." 

She  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  a  tremble  of  the 
239 


24o         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

boy's  hand  or  a  short  motion  to  knock  off  the  cig- 
arette ash. 

"Did  you  say  'was'  Dick  Wilbur  ?" 

"Yes.     Did  you  know  him?" 

"Heard  of  him,  I  think.  Kind  of  a  hard  one, 
wasn't  he?" 

"No,  no!  A  fine,  brave,  gentle  fellow — poor 
Dick!" 

She  stopped,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears  at  many  a 
memory. 

"H-m !"  coughed  the  boy.  "I  thought  he  was  one 
of  old  Boone's  gang?  If  he's  dead,  that  made  the 
last  of  'em — except  Red  Pierre." 

It  was  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  call  at  her  ear. 
Mary  sat  up  with  a  start. 

"What  do  you  know  of  Red  Pierre?" 

The  boy  flushed  a  little,  and  could  not  quite  meet 
Jier  eye. 

"Nothin'." 

"At  least  you  know  that  he's  still  alive?" 

"Sure.  Any  one  does.  When  he  dies  the  whole 
range  will  know  about  it — damn  quick.  I  know  that 
much  about  Red  Pierre;  but  who  doesn't?" 

"I,  for  one." 

"You!" 

Strangely  enough,  there  was  more  of  accusation 
than  of  surprise  in  the  word. 

"Certainly,"  repeated  Mary.  "I've  only  been  in 
this  part  of  the  country  for  a  short  time.  I  really 
know  almost  nothing  about  the — the  legends." 

"Legends?"  said  the  boy,  and  laughed  with  a 
voice  of  such  rich,  light  music  that  it  took  the  breath 


THE  WHISPER  OF  THE  KNIFE     241 

from  Mary.  "Legend?  Say,  lady,  if  Red  Pierre 
is  just  a  legend  the  Civil  War  ain't  no  more'n  a 
fable.  Legend?  You  go  anywhere  on  the  range 
an'  get  'em  talking  about  that  legend,  and  they'll 
make  you  think  it's  an  honest-to-goodness  fact,  and 
no  mistake." 

Mary  queried  earnestly:  "Tell  me  about  Red 
Pierre.  It's  almost  as  hard  to  learn  anything  of 
him  as  it  is  to  find  out  anything  about  McGurk." 

"What  you  doing?"  asked  the  boy,  keen  with  sus- 
picion. "Making  a  study  of  them  two  for  a  book?" 

He  wiped  a  damp  forehead. 

(<Take  it  from  me,  lady,  it  ain't  healthy  to  join 
up  them  two  even  in  talk!" 

"Is  there  any  harm  in  words?" 

The  boy  was  so  upset  for  some  unknown  reason 
that  he  rose  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room  in  a 
nervous  tremor. 

"Lots  of  harm  in  fool  words." 

He  sat  down  again,  and  seemed  a  little  anxious  to 
explain  his  unusual  conduct. 

"Ma'am,  suppose  you  had  a  well  plumb  full  of 
nitroglycerin  in  your  back  yard;  suppose  there  was 
a  forest  fire  comin'  your  way  from  all  sides;  would 
you  like  to  have  people  talk  about  the  nitroglycerin 
and  that  forest  fire  meeting?  Even  the  talk  would 
give  you  chills.  That's  the  way  it  is  with  Pierre  and 
McGurk.  When  they  meet  there's  going  to  be  a 
fight  that'll  stop  the  hearts  of  the  people  that  have 
to  look  on." 

Mary  smiled  to  cover  her  excitement. 

"But  are  they  coming  your  way?"  ,  j 


242         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

The  question  seemed  to  infuriate  young  Jack,  who 
cried:  "Ain't  that  a  fool  way  of  talkin'?  Lady, 
they're  coming  every  one's  way.  You  never  know 
where  they'll  start  from  or  where  they'll  land.  If 
there's  a  thunder-cloud  all  over  the  sky,  do  you  know 
where  the  lightning's  going  to  strike?" 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Mary,  but  she  was  still  eager 
with  curiosity,  "but  I  should  think  that  a  youngster 
like  you  wouldn't  have  anything  to  fear  from  even 
those  desperadoes." 

"Youngster,  eh?"  snarled  the  boy,  whose  wrath 
seemed  implacable.  "I  can  make  my  draw  and  start 
my  gun  as  fast  as  any  man — except  them  two,  may- 
be"— he  lowered  his  voice  somewhat  even  to  name 
them— "Pierre— McGurk !" 

"It  seems  hopeless  to  find  out  anything  about  Mc- 
Gurk," said  Mary,  "but  at  least  you  can  tell  me 
safely  about  Red  Pierre." 

"Interested  in  him,  eh?"  said  the  boy  dryly. 

"Well,  he's  a  rather  romantic  figure,  don't  you 
think?" 

"Romantic?  Lady,  about  a  month  ago  I  was 
talking  with  a  lady  that  was  a  widow  because  of 
Red  Pierre.  She  didn't  think  him  none  too  ro- 


mantic." 


"Red  Pierre  had  killed  the  woman's  husband?" 
repeated  Mary,  with  pale  lips. 

"Yep.  He  was  one  of  the  gang  that  took  a  chance 
with  Pierre  and  got  bumped  off.  Had  three  bullets 
in  him  and  dropped  without  getting  his  gun  out  of 
the  leather.  Pierre  sure  does  a  nice,  artistic  job. 
He  serves  you  a  murder  with  all  the  trimmings.  If 


THE  WHISPER  OF  THE  KNIFE     243 

I  wanted  to  die  nice  and  polite  without  making  a 
mess,  I  don't  know  who  I'd  rather  go  to  than  Red 
Pierre." 

"A  murderer!"  mused  Mary,  with  bowed  head. 

The  boy  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but  changed  his 
mind  and  sat  regarding  the  girl  with  a  somewhat 
sinister  smile. 

"But  might  it  not  be,"  said  Mary,  "that  he  killed 
one  man  in  self-defense  and  then  his  destiny  drove 
him,  and  bad  luck  forced  him  into  one  bad  position 
after  another?  There  have  been  histories  as  strange 
as  that,  you  know." 

Jack  laughed  again,  but  most  of  the  music  was 
gone  from  the  sound,  and  it  was  simply  a  low,  omi- 
nous purr. 

"Sure,"  he  said.  "You  can  take  a  bear-cub  and 
keep  him  tame  till  he  gets  the  taste  of  blood,  but 
after  that  you  got  to  keep  him  muzzled,  you  know. 
Pierre  needs  a  muzzle,  but  there  ain't  enough  gun- 
fighters  on  the  range  to  put  one  on  him." 

Something  like  pride  crept  into  the  boy's  voice 
while  he  spoke,  and  he  ended  with  a  ringing  tone. 
Then,  feeling  the  curious,  judicial  eyes  of  Mary 
upon  him,  he  abruptly  changed  the  subject. 

"You  say  Dick  Wilbur  is  dead?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  think  he  is." 

"But  he  started  out  with  you.  You  ought  to 
know." 

"It  was  like  this :  We  had  camped  on  the  edge  of 
the  trees  coming  up  the  Old  Crow  Valley,  and  Dick 
went  off  with  the  can  to  get  water  at  the  river.  He 
was  gone  a  long  time,  and  when  I  went  out  to  look 


244         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

for  him  I  found  the  can  at  the  margin  of  the  river 
half  filled  with  sand,  and  beside  it  there  was  the  im- 
pression of  the  body  of  a  big  man.  That  was  all  I 
found,  and  Dick  never  came  back." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Could  he  have  fallen  into  the  river?" 

"Sure.  He  was  probably  helped  in.  Did  you 
look  for  the  footprints?" 

"I  didn't  think  of  that." 

Jack  was  speechless  with  scorn. 

"Sat  down  and  cried,  eh?" 

"I  was  dazed;  I  couldn't  think.  But  he  couldn't 
have  been  killed  by  some  other  man.  There  was  no 
shot  fired;  I  should  have  heard  it." 

Jack  moistened  his  lips. 

"Lady,  a  knife  don't  make  much  sound  either  go- 
ing or  coming  out — not  much  more  sound  than  a 
whisper,  but  that  whisper  means  a  lot.  I  got  an 
idea  that  Dick  heard  it.  Then  the  river  covered 
him  up." 

He  stopped  short  and  stared  at  Mary  with  squint- 
ed eyes. 

"D'you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  had  the  nerve 
to  come  all  the  way  up  the  Old  Crow  by  yourself?" 

"Every  inch  of  the  way." 

Jack  leaned  forward,  sneering,  savage. 

"Then  I  suppose  you  put  the  hitch  that's  on  that 
pack  outside?" 

"No." 

Jack  was  dumfounded. 

"Then  you  admit — " 

"That  first  night  when  I  went  to  sleep  I  felt  as  if 


THE  WHISPER  OF  THE  KNIFE     245 

there  were  something  near  me.  When  I  woke  up 
there  was  a  bright  fire  burning  in  front  of  me  and 
the  pack  had  been  lashed  and  placed  on  one  of  the 
horses.  At  first  I  thought  that  it  was  Dick,  who  had 
come  back.  But  Dick  didn't  appear  all  day.  The 
next  night — " 

"Wait!"  said  Jack.  "This  is  gettin'  sort  of 
creepy.  If  you  was  the  drinking  kind  I'd  say  you'd 
been  hitting  up  the  red-eye." 

"The  next  evening,"  continued  Mary  steadily,  "I 
came  about  dark  on  a  camp-fire  with  a  bed  of  twigs 
near  it.  I  stayed  by  the  fire,  but  no  one  appeared. 
Once  I  thought  I  heard  a  horse  whinny  far,  away, 
and  once  I  thought  that  I  saw  a  streak  of  white 
disappear  over  the  top  of  a  hill." 

The  boy  sprang  up,  shuddering  with  panic. 

"You  saw  what?" 

"Nothing.  I  thought  for  a  minute  that  it  was  a 
bit  of  something  white,  but  it  was  gone  all  at  once." 

"White — vanished  at  once — went  into  the  dark 
as  fast  as  a  horse  can  gallop?" 

"Something  like  that.  Do  you  think  it  was  some 
one?" 

For  answer  the  boy  whipped  out  his  revolver,  ex- 
amined it,  and  spun  the  cylinder  with  shaking  hands. 
Then  he  said  through  set  teeth:  "So  you  come  up 
here  trailin'  him  after  you,  eh?" 

"Who?" 

"McGurk!" 

The  name  came  like  a  rifle  shot  and  Mary  rose 
in  turn  and  shrank  back  toward  the  wall,  for  there 
was  murder  in  the  lighted  black  eyes  which  stared 


246         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

after  her  and  crumbling  fear  in  her  own  heart  at 
the  thought  of  McGurk  hovering  near, — of  the  peril 
that  impended  for  Pierre.  Of  the  nights  in  the  val- 
ley of  the  Crow  she  refused  to  let  herself  think. 
Cold  beads  of  perspiration  stood  out  on  her  fore- 
head. 

"You  fool — you  fool !  Damn  your  pretty  pink- 
and-white  face — youVe  done  for  us  all!  Get  out!" 

Mary  moved  readily  enough  toward  the  door,  her 
teeth  chattering  with  terror  in  the  face  of  this  fury. 

Jack  continued  wildly:  "Done  for  us  all;  got  us 
all  as  good  as  under  the  sod.  I  wish  you  was  in — 
Get  out  quick,  or  I'll  forget — you're  a  woman!" 

He  broke  into  a  shrill,  hysterical  laughter,  which 
stopped  short  and  finished  in  a  heart-broken  whis- 
per:"Pierre  I" 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

LAUGHTER 

AT  that  Mary,  who  stood  with  her  hand  on  the 
latch,  whirled  and  stood  wide-eyed,  her  astonish- 
ment greater  than  her  fear,  for  that  whisper  told 
her  a  thousand  things. 

Through  her  mind  all  the  time  that  she  stayed  in 
the  cabin  there  had  passed  a  curious  surmise  that 
this  very  place  might  be  the  covert  of  Pierre  le 
Rouge — he  of  the  dark  red  hair  and  the  keen  blue 
eyes.  There  was  a  fatality  about  it,  for  the  invisible 
Power  which  had  led  her  up  the  valley  of  the  Old 
Crow  surely  would  not  make  mistakes. 

In  her  search  for  Pierre,  Providence  brought  her 
to  this  place,  and  Providence  could  not  be  wrong. 
This,  a  vague  emotion  stirring  in  her  somewhere  be- 
tween reason  and  the  heart,  grew  to  an  almost  cer- 
tain knowledge  as  she  heard  the  whisper,  the  faint, 
heartbroken  whisper:  "Pierre  1" 

And  when  she  turned  to  the  boy  again,  noting 
the  shirts  and  the  chaps  hanging  at  the  wall,  she 
knew  they  belonged  to  Pierre  as  surely  as  if  she 
had  seen  him  hang  them  there. 

The  fingers  of  Jack  were  twisted  around  the  butt 
of  his  revolver,  white  with  the  intensity  of  the  pres- 
sure. 


248         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

Now  he  cried:  "Get  out!  YouVe  done  your 
work;  get  out!" 

But  Mary  stepped  straight  toward  the  murderous, 
pale  face. 

"I'll  stay,"  she  said,  "and  wait  for  Pierre." 

The  boy  blanched. 

"Stay?"  he  echoed. 

The  heart  of  Mary  went  out  to  this  trusty  com- 
panion who  feared  for  his  friend. 

She  said  gently:  "Listen;  I've  come  all  this  way 
looking  for  Pierre,  but  not  to  harm  him,  or  to  be- 
tray him,  I'm  his  friend.  Can't  you  trust  me 
Jack?" 

"Trust  you?  No  more  than  I'll  trust  what  came 
with  you!" 

And  the  fierce  black  eyes  lingered  on  Mary  and 
then  fled  past  her  toward  the  door,  as  if  the  boy 
debated  hotly  and  silently  whether  or  not  it  would 
be  better  to  put  an  end  to  this  intruder,  but  stayed 
his  hand,  fearing  that  Power  which  had  followed 
her  up  the  valley  of  the  Old  Crow. 

It  was  that  same  invisible  guardian  who  made 
Mary  strong  now;  it  was  like  the  hand  of  a  friend 
on  her  shoulder,  like  the  voice  of  a  friend  whisper- 
ing reassuring  words  at  her  ear.  She  faced  those 
blazing,  black  eyes  steadily.  It  would  be  better  to 
be  frank,  wholly  frank. 

"This  is  the  house  of  Pierre.  I  know  it  as  surely 
as  if  I  saw  him  sitting  here  now.  You  can't  deceive 
me.  And  I'll  stay.  I'll  even  tell  you  why.  Once 
he  said  that  he  loved  me,  Jack,  but  he  left  me  be- 
cause of  a  strange  superstition ;  and  so  I've  followed 


LAUGHTER  249 

to  tell  him  that  I  want  to  be  near  no  matter  what 
fate  hangs  over  him." 

And  the  boy,  whiter  still,  and  whiter,  looked  at 
her  with  clearing,  narrowing  eyes. 

"So  you're  one  of  them,"  said  the  boy  softly; 
"you're  one  of  the  fools  who  listen  to  Red  Pierre. 
Well,  I  know  you ;  I've  known  you  from  the  minute 
I  seen  you  crouched  there  at  the  fire.  You're  the 
one  Pierre  met  at  the  dance  at  the  Crittenden  school- 
house.  Tell  me !" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary,  marveling  greatly. 

"And  he  told  you  he  loved  you?" 

"Yes." 

It  was  a  fainter  voice  now,  and  the  color  was  go- 
ing up  her  cheeks. 

The  lad  fixed  her  with  his  cold  scorn  and  then 
turned  on  his  heel  and  slipped  into  an  easy  position 
on  the  bunk. 

"Then  wait  for  him  to  come.  He'll  be  here  be- 
fore morning." 

But  Mary  followed  across  the  room  and  touched 
the  shoulder  of  Jack.  It  was  as  if  she  touched  a  wild 
wolf,  for  the  lad  whirled  and  struck  her  hand  away 
in  an  outburst  of  silent  fury. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  stay?  He  hasn't— he  hasn't 
changed — Jack?" 

The  insolent  black  eyes  looked  up  and  scanned 
her  slowly  from  head  to  foot.  Then  he  laughed 
in  the  same  deliberate  manner.  It  was  to  Mary  as 
if  her  clothes  had  been  torn  from  her  body  and  she 
were  exposed  to  the  bold  eyes  of  a  crowd,  like  a  slave 
put  up  for  sale. 


250         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"No,  I  guess  he  thinks  as  much  of  you  now  as  he 
ever  did." 

"You  are  lying  to  me,"  said  the  girl  faintly,  but 
the  terror  in  her  eyes  said  another  thing. 

"He  thinks  as  much  of  you  as  he  ever  did.  He 
thinks  as  much  of  you  as  he  does  of  the  rest  of  the 
soft-handed,  pretty-faced  fools  who  listen  to  him 
and  believe  him.  I  suppose " 

He  broke  off  to  laugh  heartily  again,  with  a  jar- 
ring, forced  note  which  escaped  Mary. 

"I  suppose  that  he  made  love  to  you  one  minute 
and  the  next  told  you  that  bad  luck — something 
about  the  cross — kept  him  away  from  you?" 

Each  slow  word,  like  a  blow  of  a  fist,  drove  the 
girl  quivering  back.  She  closed  her  eyes  to  shut 
out  the  scorn  of  that  handsome,  boyish  face;  closed 
her  eyes  to  summon  out  from  the  dark  of  her  mind 
the  picture  of  Pierre  le  Rouge  as  he  had  knelt  be- 
fore her  and  told  her  of  his  love;  of  Pierre  le  Rouge 
as  he  had  lain  beside  her  with  the  small,  shining  cross 
held  high  above  his  head,  and  waited  for  death  to 
come  over  them  both.  She  saw  all  this,  and  then 
she  heard  the  voice  of  Pierre  renouncing  her. 

She  opened  her  eyes  again.    She  cried : 

"It  is  all  a  lie !  If  he  is  not  true,  there's  no  truth 
in  the  world." 

"If  you  come  down  to  that,"  said  the  boy  coldly, 
"there  ain't  much  wasted  this  side  of  the  Rockies. 
It's  about  as  scarce  as  rain." 

He  continued  in  an  almost  kindly  tone:  "What 
would  you  do  with  a  wild  man  like  Red  Pierre? 
Run  along;  git  out  of  here;  grab  your  horse,  and 


LAUGHTER  251 

beat  it  back  to  civilization;  there  ain't  no  place  for 
you  up  here  in  the  wilderness." 

"What  would  I  do  with  him?"  cried  the  girl. 
"Love  him!" 

It  seemed  as  though  her  words,  like  whips,  lashed 
the  boy  back  to  his  murderous  anger.  He  lay  with 
blazing  eyes,  watching  her  for  a  moment,  too  moved 
to  speak.  At  last  he  propped  himself  on  one  elbow, 
shook  a  small,  white-knuckled  fist  under  the  nose  of 
Mary,  and  cried:  "Then  what  would  he  do  with 
you?" 

He  went  on :  "Would  he  wear  you  around  his  neck 
like  a  watch  charm?" 

"I'd  bring  him  back  with  me — back  into  the  East, 
and  he  would  be  lost  among  the  crowds  and  never 
suspected  of  his  past." 

"Yorfd  bring  Pierre  anywhere?  Say,  lady,  that's 
like  hearing  the  sheep  talk  about  leading  the  wolf 
around  by  the  nose.  If  all  the  men  in  the  ranges 
can't  catch  him,  or  make  him  budge  an  inch  out  of 
the  way  he's  picked,  do  you  think  you  could  stir 
him?" 

Jeering  laughter  shook  him;  it  seemed  that  he 
would  never  be  done  with  his  laughter,  yet  there 
was  a  hint  of  the  hysterically  mirthless  in  it.  It  came 
to  a  jarring  stop. 

He  said:  "D'you  think  he's  just  bein'  driven 
around  by  chance?  Lady,  d'you  think  he  even  wants 
to  get  out  of  this  life  of  his?  No,  he  loves  it!  He 
loves  the  danger.  D'you  think  a  man  that's  used  to 
breathing  in  a  whirlwind  can  get  used  to  living  in 
calm  air?  It  can't  be  done!" 


252         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

And  the  girl  answered  steadily:  "For  every  man 
there  is  one  woman,  and  for  that  woman  the  man 
will  do  strange  things." 

"You  poor,  white-faced,  whimpering  fool," 
snarled  the  boy,  gripping  at  his  gun  again,  "d'you 
dream  that  you're  the  one  that's  picked  out  for 
Pierre?  No,  there's  another!" 

"Another?    A  woman  who " 

"Who  loves  Pierre — a  woman  that's  fit  for  him. 
She  can  ride  like  a  man;  she  can  shoot  almost  as 
straight  and  as  fast  as  Pierre;  she  can  handle  a 
knife;  and  she's  been  through  hell  for  Pierre,  and 
she'll  go  through  it  again.  She  can  ride  the  trail  all 
day  with  him  and  finish  it  less  fagged  than  he  is. 
She  can  chop  down  a  tree  as  well  as  he  can,  and  build 
a  fire  better.  She  can  hold  up  a  train  with  him  or  rob 
a  bank  and  slip  through  a  town  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  and  laugh  with  him  about  it  afterward  around 
a  camp-fire.  I  ask  you,  is  that  the  sort  of  a  woman 
that's  meant  for  Pierre?" 

Anft  the  girl  answered,  with  bowed  head:  "She 


is." 


She  cried  instantly  afterward,  cutting  short  the 
look  of  wild  triumph  on  the  face  of  the  boy:  "But 
there's  no  such  woman;  there's  no  one  who  could  do 
these  things!  I  know  it!" 

The  boy  sprang  to  his  feet,  flushing  as  red  as  the 
girl  was  white. 

"You  fool,  if  you're  blind  and  got  to  have  your 
eyes  open  to  see,  look  at  the  woman!" 

And  she  tore  the  wide-brimmed  sombrero  from 
her  head.  Down  past  the  shoulders  flooded  a  mass 


LAUGHTER  253 

of  blue-black  hair.  The  firelight  flickered  and 
danced  across  the  silken  shimmer  of  it.  It  swept 
wildly  past  the  waist,  a  glorious,  night-dark  tide  in 
which  the  heart  of  a  strong  man  could  be  tangled  and 
lost.  With  quivering  lips  Jacqueline  cried:  "Look 
at  me !  Am  I  worthy  of  him  ?n 

Short  step  by  step  Mary  went  back,  staring  with 
fascinated  eyes  as  one  who  sees  some  devilish,  mid- 
night revelry,  and  shrinks  away  from  it  lest  the  sight 
should  blast  her.  She  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hands  but  instantly  strong  grips  fell  on  her  wrists 
and  her  hands  were  jerked  down  from  her 
face.  She  looked  up  into  the  eyes  of  a  beautiful 
tigress. 

"Answer  me — your  yellow  hair  against  mine — 
your  child  fingers  against  my  grip — are  you  equal 
with  me?" 

But  the  strength  of  Jacqueline  faded  and  grew 
small;  her  arms  fell  to 'her  side;  she  stepped  back, 
with  a  rising  pallor  taking  the  place  of  the  red. 
For  Mary,  brushing  her  hands,  one  gloved  and  one 
bare,  before  her  eyes,  returned  the  stare  of  the 
mountain  girl  with  a  calm  and  equal  scorn.  Her 
heart  was  breaking,  but  a  mighty  loathing  filled  up 
her  veins  in  place  of  strength. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "was — was  this  man  living 
with  you  when  he  came  to  me  and — and  made 
speeches — about  love?" 

"Bah!  He  was  living  with  me.  I  tell  you,  he 
came  back  and  laughed  with  me  about  it,  and  told 
me  about  your  baby-blue  eyes  when  they  filled  with 


2S4         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

tears;  laughed  and  laughed  and  laughed,  I  tell  you, 
as  I  could  laugh  now." 

The  other  twisted  her  hands  together,  moaning: 
"And  I  have  followed  him,  even  to  the  place  where 
he  keeps  his — woman?  Ah,  how  I  hate  myself; 
how  I  despise  myself.  I'm  unclean — unclean  in  my 
own  eyes!" 

"Wait!"  called  Jacqueline.  "You  are  leaving  too 
soon.  The  night  is  cold." 

"I  am  going.     There  is  no  need  to  gibe  at  me." 

"But  wait — he  will  want  to  see  you!  I  will  tell 
him  that  you  have  been  here — that  you  came  clear 
up  the  valley  of  the  Old  Crow  to  see  him  and  beg 
him  on  your  knees  to  love  you — he'll  be  angry  to 
have  missed  the  scene!" 

But  the  door  closed  on  Mary  as  she  fled  with 
her  hands  pressed  against  her  ears. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

A  TALE  OF  A  CARELESS  MAN 

JACQUELINE  ran  to  the  door  and  threw  it  open. 

"Ride  down  the  valley!"  she  cried.  "That's 
right.  He's  coming  up,  and  he'll  meet  you  on  the 
way.  He'll  be  glad — to  see  you !" 

She  saw  the  rider  swing  sharply  about,  and  the 
clatter  of  the  galloping  hoofs  died  out  up  the  val- 
ley; then  she  closed  the  door,  dropped  the  latch,  and, 
running  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  threw  up  her 
arms  and  cried  out,  a  wild,  shrill  yell  of  triumph  like 
the  call  of  the  old  Indian  brave  when  he  rises  with 
the  scalp  of  his  murdered  enemy  dripping  in  his 
hand. 

The  extended  arms  she  caught  back  to  her  breast, 
and  stood  there  with  head  tilted  back,  crushing  her 
delight  closer  to  her  heart. 

And  she  whispered:  "Pierre!  Mine,  mine! 
Pierre!" 

Next  she  went  to  the  steel  mirror  on  the  wall 
and  looked  long  at  the  flushed,  triumphant  image. 
At  length  she  started,  like  one  awakening  from  a 
happy  dream,  and  hurriedly  coiled  tta  thick,  soft 
tresses  about  her  head.  Never  before  had  she  lin- 
gered so  over  a  toilet,  patting  each  lock  into  place, 

255 


256         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

twisting  her  head  from  side  to  side  like  a  peacock 
admiring  its  image. 

Now  she  looked  about  hungrily  for  a  touch  of 
color  and  uttered  a  little  moan  of  vexation  when  she 
saw  nothing,  till  her  eyes,  piercing  through  the 
gloom  of  a  dim  corner,  saw  a  spray  of  autumn 
leaves,  long  left  there  and  still  stained  with  beauty. 
She  fastened  them  at  the  breast  of  her  shirt,  and 
so  arrayed  began  to  cook. 

Never  was  there  a  merrier  cook,  not  even  some 
jolly  French  chef  with  a  heart  made  warm  with 
good  red  wine,  for  she  sang  as  she  worked,  and 
whenever  she  had  to  cross  the  room  it  was  with  a 
dancing  step.  Spring  was  in  her  blood,  warm  spring 
that  loosens  the  muscles  about  the  heart  and  makes 
the  eyes  of  girls  dim  and  sets  men  smiling  for  no 
cause  except  that  they  are  living,  and  rejoicing  with 
the  whole  awakening  world. 

So  it  was  with  Jacqueline.  Ever  and  anon  as 
she  leaned  over  the  pans  and  stirred  the  fire  she 
raised  her  head  and  remained  a  moment  motionless, 
waiting  for  a  sound,  yearning  to  hear,  and  each  time 
she  had  to  look  down  again  with  a  sigh. 

As  it  was,  he  took  her  by  surprise,  for  he  entered 
with  the  soft  foot  of  the  hunted  and  remained  an 
instant  searching  the  room  with  a  careful  glance. 
Not  that  he  suspected,  not  that  he  had  not  relaxed 
his  guard  and  his  vigilance  the  moment  he  caught 
sight  of  the  flicker  of  light  through  the  mass  of 
great  boulders,  but  the  lifelong  habit  of  watchful- 
ness remained  with  him. 

Even  when  he  spoke  face  to  face  with  a  man,  he 


A  TALE  OF  A  CARELESS  MAN     257 

never  seemed  to  be  giving  more  than  half  his  at- 
tention, for  might  not  some  one  else  approach  if  he 
lost  himself  in  order  to  listen  to  any  one  voice  ?  He 
had  covered  half  the  length  of  the  room  with  that 
soundless  step  before  she  heard,  and  rose  with  a 
glad  cry:  "Pierre!" 

Meeting  that  calm  blue  eye,  she  checked  herself 
mightily. 

"A  hard  ride?'1  she  asked. 

"Nothing  much.11 

He  took  the  rock  nearest  the  fire  and  then  raised 
a  glance  of  inquiry. 

"I  got  cold,"  she  said,  "and  rolled  it  over." 

He  considered  her  and  then  the  r6ck,  not  with 
suspicion,  but  as  if  he  held  the  matter  in  abeyance 
for  further  consideration;  a  hunted  man  and  a 
hunter  must  keep  an  eye  for  little  things,  must  carry 
an  armed  hand  and  an  armed  heart  even  among 
friends.  As  for  Jacqueline,  her  color  had  risen,  and 
she  leaned  hurried'y  over  a  pan  in  which  meat  was 
frying. 

"Any  results?"  she  asked. 

"Some." 

She  waited,  knowing  that  the  story  would  come 
at  length. 

He  added  after  a  moment:  "Strange  how  care- 
less some  people  get  to  be." 

"Yes?"  she  queried. 

"Yes." 

Another  pause,  during  which  he  casually  drummed 
his  fingers  on  his  knee.  She  saw  that  he  must  re- 
ceive more  encouragement  before  he  would  tell,  and 


258         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

she  gave  it,  smiling  to  herself.  Women  are  old  in 
certain  ways  of  understanding  in  which  men  remain 
children  forever. 

"I  suppose  we're  still  broke,  Pierre?" 

"Broke?    Well,  not  entirely.    I  got  some  results." 

"Good." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  a  pretty  fair  haul. 
Watch  that  meat,  Jack;  I  think  it's  burning." 

It  was  hardly  beginning  to  cook,  but  she  turned 
it  obediently  and  hid  another  slow  smile.  Rising, 
she  passed  behind  his  chair,  and  pretended  to  busy 
herself  with  something  near  the  wall.  This  was 
the  environment  and  attitude  which  would  make 
him  talk  most  freely,  she  knew. 

"Speaking  of  careless  men,"  said  Pierre,  "I  could 
tell  you  a  yarn,  Jack." 

She  stood  close  behind  him  and  made  about  his 
unconscious  head  a  gesture  of  caress,  the  overflow 
of  an  infinite  tenderness. 

"I'd  sure  like  to  hear  it,  Pierr-." 

"Well,  it  was  like  this:  I  knew  a  fellow  who 
started  on  the  range  with  a  small  stock  of  cattle. 
He  wasn't  a  very  good  worker,  and  he  didn't  under- 
stand cattle  any  too  well,  so  he  didn't  prosper  for 
quite  a  while.  Then  his  affairs  took  a  sudden  turn 
for  the  better;  his  herd  began  to  increase.  Nobody 
understood  the  reason,  though  a  good  many  sus- 
pected, but  one  man  fell  onto  the  reason :  our  friend 
was  simply  running  in  a  few  doggies  on  the  side, 
and  he'd  arranged  a  very  ingenious  way  of  chang- 
ing the  brands." 

"Pierre—" 


A  TALE  OF  A  CARELESS  MAN     259 

"Well?" 

"What  does  ingenious'  mean?" 

"Why,  I  should  say  it  means  'skilful,  clever/  and 
it  carries  with  it  the  connotation  of  'novel.' ' 

"It  carries  the  con-conno — what's  that  word, 
Pierre?" 

"I'm  going  to  get  some  books  for  you,  Jack,  and 
we'll  do  a  bit  of  reading  on  the  side,  shall  we?" 

"I'd  love  that!" 

He  turned  and  looked  up  to  her  sharply. 

He  said:  "Sometimes,  Jack,  you  talk  just  like 
a  girl." 

"Do  I?  That's  queer,  isn't  it?  But  go  on  with 
the  story." 

"He  changed  the  brands  very  skilfully,  and  no 
one  got  the  dope  on  him  except  this  one  man  I 
mentioned;  and  that  man  kept  his  face  shut.  He 
waited. 

"So  it  went  on  for  a  good  many  years.  The 
herd  of  our  friend  grew  very  rapidly.  He  sold 
just  enough  cattle  to  keep  himself  and  his  wife  alive; 
he  was  bent  on  making  one  big  haul,  you  see.  So 
when  his  doggies  got  to  the  right  age  and  condition 
for  the  market,  he'd  trade  them  off,  one  fat  doggie 
for  two  or  three  skinny  yearlings.  But  finally  he 
had  a  really  big  herd  together,  and  shipped  it  off 
to  the  market  on  a  year  when  the  price  was  sky- 


high." 
"T  : 


Like  this  year?" 
"Don't  interrupt  me,  Jack!" 
From  the  shadow  behind  him  she  smiled  again. 
"They  went  at  a  corking  price,  and  our  friend 


260         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

cleared  up  a  good  many  thousand — I  won't  say  just 
how  much.  He  sank  part  of  it  in  a  ruby  brooch  for 
his  wife,  and  shoved  the  rest  into  a  satchel. 

"You  see  how  careful  he'd  been  all  those  years 
while  he  was  piling  up  his  fortune  ?  Well,  he  began 
to  get  careless  the  moment  he  cashed  in,  which  was 
rather  odd.  He  depended  on  his  fighting  power  to 
keep  that  money  safe,  but  he  forgot  that  while  he'd 
been  making  a  business  of  rustling  doggies  and 
watching  cattle  markets,  other  men  had  been  mak- 
ing a  business  of  shooting  fast  and  straight. 

"Among  others  there  was  the  silent  man  who'd 
watched  and  waited  for  so  long.  But  this  silent 
man  hove  alongside  while  our  rich  friend  was  bound 
home  in  a  buckboard. 

*  'Good  evening!'  he  called. 

"The  rich  chap  turned  and  heard;  it  all  seemed 
all  right,  but  he'd  done  a  good  deal  of  shady  busi- 
ness in  his  day,  and  that  made  him  suspicious  of  the 
silent  man  now.  So  he  reached  for  his  gun  and 
got  it  out  just  in  time  to  be  shot  cleanly  through  the 
hand. 

"The  silent  man  tied  up  that  hand  and  sympa- 
thized with  the  rich  chap ;  then  he  took  that  satchel 
and  divided  the  paper  money  into  two  bundles. 
One  was  twice  the  size  of  the  other,  and  the  silent 
man  took  the  smaller  one.  There  was  only  twelve 
thousand  dollars  in  it.  Also,  he  took  the  ruby 
brooch  for  a  friend — and  as  a  sort  of  keepsake,  you 
know.  And  he  delivered  a  short  lecture  to  the  rich 
man  on  the  subject  of  carelessness  and  rode  away. 
The  rich  man  picked  up  his  gun  with  his  left  hand 


A  TALE  OF  A  CARELESS  MAN     261 

and  opened  fire,  but  he'd  never  learned  to  shoot 
very  well  with  that  hand,  so  the  silent  man  came 
through  safe." 

"That's  a  bully  story,"  said  Jack.  "Who  was 
the  silent  man?" 

"I  think  you've  seen  him  a  few  times,  at  that." 

She  concealed  another  smile,  and  said  in  the  most 
businesslike  manner:  "Chow-time,  Pierre,"  and  set 
out  the  pans  on  the  table. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said  easily,  "I've  got  a  little 
present  for  you,  Jack." 

And  he  took  out  a  gold  pin  flaming  with  three 
great  rubies. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

A  COUNT  TO  TEN 

SHE  merely  stared,  like  a  child  which  may  either 
burst  into  tears  or  laughter,  no  one  can  prophesy 
which. 

He  explained,  rather  worried:  "You  see,  you 
are  a  girl,  Jack,  and  I  remembered  that  you  were 
pleased  about  those  clothes  that  you  wore  to  the 
dance  in  Crittenden  Schoolhouse,  and  so  when  I  saw 
that  pin  I — well — " 

"Oh,  Pierre !"  said  a  stifled  voice,  "Oh,  Pierre!" 

"By  Jove,  Jack,  aren't  angry,  are  you?  See,  when 
you  put  it  at  the  throat  it  doesn't  look  half  bad!" 

And  to  try  it,  he  pinned  it  on  her  shirt.  She 
caught  both  his  hands,  kissed  them  again  and  again, 
and  then  buried  her  face  against  them  as  she  sobbed. 
If  the  heavens  had  opened  and  a  cloudburst  crashed 
on  the  roof  of  the  house,  he  would  have  been  less 
astounded. 

"What  is  it?"  he  cried.  "Damn  it  all— Jack— 
you  see — I  meant — " 

But  she  tore  herself  away  and  flung  herself  face 
down  on  the  bunk,  sobbing  more  bitterly  than  ever. 
He  followed,  awestricken — terrified. 

He  touched  her  shoulder,  but  she  shrank  away 
and  seemed  more  distressed  than  ever.  It  was  not 

262 


A  COUNT  TO  TEN  263 

the  crying  of  a  weak  woman:  these  were  heart- 
rending sounds,  like  the  sobbing  of  a  man  who  has 
never  before  known  tears. 

"Jack — perhaps  I've  done  something  wrong — " 

He  stammered  again:  "I  didn't  dream  I  was 
hurting  you — " 

Then  light  broke  upon  him. 

He  said:  "It's  because  you  don't  want  to  be 
treated  like  a  silly  girl;  eh,  Jack?" 

But  to  complete  his  astonishment  she  moaned: 
"N-n-no!  It's  b-b-because  you — you  n-n-never  do 
t-treat  me  like  a  g-g-girl,  P-P-Pierre  1" 

He  groaned  heartily:     "Well,  I'll  be  damned!" 

And  because  he  was  thoughtful  he  strode  away, 
staring  at  the  floor.  It  was  then  that  he  saw  it, 
small  and  crumpled  on  the  floor.  He  picked  it  up — 
a  glove  of  the  softest  leather.  He  carried  it  back 
to  Jacqueline. 

"What's  this?" 

"Wh-wh-what?" 

"This  glove  I  found  on  the  floor?" 

The  sobs  decreased  at  once — broke  out  more  vio- 
lently— and  then  she  sprang  up  from  the  bunk,  face 
suffused,  and  eyes  timidly  seeking  his  with  upward 
glances. 

"Pierre,  I've  acted  a  regular  chump.  Are  you 
out  with  me?" 

"Not  a  bit,  old-timer.     But  about  this  glove?" 

"Oh,  that's  one  of  mine." 

She  took  it  and  slipped  it  into  the  bosom  of  her 
shirt — the  calm  blue  eye  of  Pierre  noted. 


264        RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

He  said:  "We'll  eat  and  forget  the  rest  of  this, 
if  you  want,  Jack." 

"And  you  ain't  mad  at  me,  Pierre?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

There  was  just  a  trace  of  coldness  in  his  tone,  and 
she  knew  perfectly  why  it  was  there,  but  she  chose 
to  ascribe  it  to  another  cause. 

She  explained:  "You  see,  a  woman  is  just  about 
nine-tenths  fool,  Pierre,  and  has  to  bust  out  like 
that  once  in  a  while." 

"Oh!"  said  Pierre,  and  his  eyes  wandered  past 
her  as  though  he  found  food  for  thought  on  the 
wall. 

She  ventured  cautiously,  after  seeing  that  he  was 
eating  with  appetite:  "How  does  the  pin  look?" 

"Why,  fine." 

And  the  silence  began  again. 

She  dared  not  question  him  in  that  mood,  so  she 
ventured  again :  "The  old  boy  shooting  left-handed 
— didn't  he  even  fan  the  wind  near  you?" 

"That  was  another  bit  of  carelessness,"  said 
Pierre,  but  his  smile  held  little  of  life.  "He  might 
have  known  that  if  he  had  shot  close — by  accident — 
I  might  have  turned  around  and  shot  him  dead — 
on  purpose.  But  when  a  man  stops  thinking  for  a 
minute,  he's  apt  to  go  on  for  a  long  time  making 
a  fool  of  himself." 

"Right,"  she  said,  brightening  as  she  felt  .the 
crisis  pass  away,  "and  that  reminds  me  of  a  story 
about—" 

"By  the  way,  Jack,  I'll  wager  there's  a  more  in- 
teresting story  than  that  you  could  tell  me." 


A  COUNT  TO  TEN  265 

"What?" 

"About  how  that  glove  happened  to  be  on  the 
floor." 

"Why,  partner,  it's  just  a  glove  of  my  own."    , 

"Didn't  know  you  wore  gloves  with  a  leather  as 
soft  as  that." 

"No?  Well,  that  story  I  was  speaking  about 
runs  something  like  this — " 

And  she  told  him  a  gay  narrative,  throwing  all 
her  spirit  into  it,  for  she  was  an  admirable  mimic. 
He  met  her  spirit  more  than  half-way,  laughing 
gaily;  and  so  they  reached  the  end  of  the  story  and 
the  end  of  the  meal  at  the  same  time.  She  cleared 
away  the  pans  with  a  few  motions  and  tossed  them 
clattering  into  a  corner.  Neat  housekeeping  was 
not  numbered  among  the  many  virtues  of  Jacqueline. 

"Now,"  said  Pierre,  leaning  back  against  the 
wall,  "we'll  hear  about  that  glove." 

"Damn  the  glove!"  broke  from  her. 

"Steady,  pal!" 

"Pierre,  are  you  going  to  nag  me  about  a  little 
thing  like  that?" 

"Why,  Jack,  you're  red  and  white  in  patches. 
I'm  interested." 

He  sat  up. 

"I'm  more  than  interested.    The  story,  Jack." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  have  to  tell  you.  I  did  a 
fool  thing  to-day.  Took  a  little  gallop  down  the 
trail,  and  on  my  way  back  I  met  a  girl  sitting  in  her 
saddle  with  her  face  in  her  hands,  crying  her  heart 
out.  Poor  kid !  She'd  come  up  in  a  hunting  party 
and  got  separated  from  the  rest. 


166        RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"So  I  got  sympathetic — " 

"About  the  first  time  on  record  that  youVe  been 
sympathetic  with  another  girl,  eh?" 

"Shut  up,  Pierre!  And  I  brought  her  in  here — 
right  into  your  cabin,  without  thinking  what  I  was 
doing,  and  gave  her  a  cup  of  coffee.  Of  course  it 
was  a  pretty  greenhorn  trick,  but  I  guess  no  harm 
will  come  of  it.  The  girl  thinks  it's  a  prospector's 
cabin — which  it  was  once.  She  went  on  her  way, 
happy,  because  I  told  her  of  the  right  trail  to  get 
back  with  her  gang.  That's  all  there  is  to  it.  Are 
you  mad  at  me  for  letting  any  one  come  into  this 
place?" 

"Mad?"  he  smiled.  "No,  I  think  that's  one  of 
the  best  lies  you  ever  told  me,  Jack." 

Their  eyes  met,  hers  very  wide,  and  his  keen  and 
steady.  The  she  gripped  at  the  butt  of  her  gun,  an 
habitual  trick  when  she  was  very  angry,  and  cried: 
"Do  I  have  to  sit  here  and  let  you  call  me — that? 
Pierre,  pull  a  few  more  tricks  like  that  and  I'll  call 
for  a  new  deal.  Get  me?" 

She  rose,  whirled,  and  threw  herself  sullenly  on 
her  bunk. 

"Come  back,"  said  Pierre.  "You're  more  scared 
than  angry.  Why  are  you  afrafd,  Jack?" 

"It's  a  lie— I'm  not  afraid!" 

"Let  me  see  that  glove  again." 

"You've  seen  it  once — that's  enough." 

He  whistled  carelessly,  rolling  a  cigarette.  After 
he  lighted  it  he  said :  "Ready  to  talk  yet,  partner?" 

She  maintained  an  obstinate  silence,  but  that  sharp 


A  COUNT  TO  TEN  267 

eye  saw  that  she  was  trembling.  He  set  his  teeth 
and  then  drew  several  long  puffs  on  his  cigarette. 

"I'm  going  to  count  to  ten,  pal,  and  when  I  finish 
you're  going  to  tell  me  everything  straight.  In  the 
mean  time  don't  stay  there  thinking  up  a  new  lie. 
I  know  you  too  well,  and  if  you  try  the  same  thing 
on  me  again — " 

"Well?"  she  snarled,  all  the  tiger  coming  back  in 
her  voice. 

"You'll  talk,  all  right.  Here  goes  the  count: 
One — two — three — four — " 

As  he  counted,  leaving  a  long  drag  of  two  or 
three  seconds  between  numbers,  there  was  not  a 
change  in  the  figure  of  the  girl.  She  still  lay  with 
her  back  turned  on  him,  and  the  only  expressive 
part  that  showed  was  her  hand.  First  it  lay  limp 
against^her  hip,  but  as  the  monotonous  count  pro- 
ceeded it  gathered  to  a  fist. 

"Five — six — seven — " 

It  seemed  that  he  had  been  counting  for  hours, 
his  will  against  her  will,  the  man  in  him  against 
the  woman  in  her,  and  during  the  pauses  between 
the  sound  of  his  voice  the  very  air  grew  charged 
with  waiting.  To  the  girl  the  wait  for  every  count 
was  like  the  wait  of  the  doomed  traitor  when  he 
stands  facing  the  firing-squad,  watching  the  glimmer 
of  light  go  down  the  aimed  rifles. 

For  she  knew  the  face  of  the  man  who  sat  there 
counting;  she  knew  how  the  firelight  flared  in  the 
dark-red  of  his  hair  and  made  it  seem  like  another 
fire  beneath  which  the  blue  of  the  eyes  was  strangely 


268         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

cold  and  keen.  Her  hand  had  gathered  to  a  hard- 
balled  fist. 

"Eight— nine— " 

She  sprang  up,  screaming:  "No,  no,  Pierre I" 
And  threw  out  her  arms  to  him. 

"Ten." 

She  whispered:  "It  was  the  girl  with  yellow  hair 
— Mary  Brown." 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

TIGER-HEART 

IT  was  as  if  she  had  said:  "Good  morning 1"  in 
the  calmest  of  voices.  There  was  no  answer  in  him, 
neither  word  nor  expression,  and  out  of  ten  sharp- 
eyed  men,  nine  would  have  passed  him  by  without 
noting  the  difference ;  but  the  girl  knew  him  as  the 
monk  knows  his  prayers  or  the  Arab  his  horse,  and 
a  solemn,  deep  despair  came  over  her.  She  felt 
like  the  drowning,  when  the  water  closes  over  their 
heads  for  the  last  time. 

He  puffed  twice  again  at  the  cigarette  and  then 
flicked  the  butt  into  the  fire.  When  he  spoke  it  was 
only  to  say:  "Did  she  stay  long?" 

But  his  eyes  avoided  her.  She  moved  a  little  so 
as  to  read  his  face,  but  when  he  turned  again  and 
answered  her  stare  she  winced. 

"Not  very  long,  Pierre." 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "I  see !  It  was  because  she  didn't 
dream  that  this  was  the  place  I  lived  in." 

It  was  the  sort  of  heartless,  torturing  questioning 
which  was  once  the  cruelest' weapon  of  the  inquisition. 
With  all  her  heart  she  fought  to  raise  her  voice 
above  the  whisper  whose  very  sound  accused  her, 
but  could  not.  She  was  condemned  to  that  voice  as 
the  man  bound  in  nightmare  is  condemned  to  walk 

269 


±70         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

slowly,  slowly,  though  the  terrible  danger  is  racing 
toward  him,  and  the  safety  which  he  must  reach  lies 
only  a  dozen  steps,  a  dozen  mortal  steps  away. 

She  said  in  that  voice :  uNo ;  of  course  she  didn't 
dream  it." 

"And  you,  Jack,  had  her  interests  at  heart — her 
best  interests,  poor  girl,  and  didn't  tell  her?" 

Her  hands  went  out  to  him  in  mute  appeal. 

"Please,  Pierre— don't !" 

"Is  something  troubling  you,  Jack?" 

"You  are  breaking  my  heart." 

"Why,  by  no  means!  Let's  sit  here  calmly  and 
chat  about  the  girl  with  the  yellow  hair.  To  be- 
gin with — she's  rather  pleasant  to  look  at,  don't 
you  think?" 

"I  suppose  she  is." 

"H-m!  rather  poor  taste  not  to  be  sure  of  it. 
Well,  let  it  go.  You've  always  had  rather  queer 
taste  in  women,  Jack;  but,  of  course,  being  a  long- 
rider,  you  haven't  seen  much  of  them.  At  least  her 
name  is  delightful — Mary  Brown!  You've  no  idea 
how  often  I've  repeated  it  aloud  to  myself  and 
relished  the  sound — Mary  Brown!" 

"I  hate  her!" 

"You  two  didn't  have  a  very  agreeable  time  of 
it?  By  the  way,  she  must  have  left  in  rather  a  hurry 
to  forget  her  glove,  eh?" 

"Yes,  she  ran — like  a  coward." 

"Ah?" 

"Like  a  trembling  coward.  How  can  you  care 
for  a  white-faced  little  fool  like  that?  Is  she  your 
match?  Is  she  your  mate?" 


TIGER-HEART  «7i 

He  considered  a  moment,  as  though  to  make 
sure  that  he  did  not  exaggerate. 

"I  love  her,  Jack,  as  men  love  water  when  they've 
ridden  all  day  over  hot  sand  without  a  drop  on  their 
lips — you  know  when  the  tongue  gets  thick  and  the 
mouth  fills  with  cotton- — and  then  you  see  clear, 
bright  water,  and  taste  it  i* 

"She  is  like  that  to  me.  She  feeds  every  sense; 
and  when  I  look  in  her  eyes,  Jack,  I  feel  like  the 
starved  man  on  the  desert,  as  I  was  saying,  drink- 
ink  that  priceless  water.  You  knew  something  of 
the  way  I  feel,  Jack.  Isn't  it  a  little  odd  that  you 
didn't  keep  her  here?" 

She  had  stood  literally  shuddering  during  this 
speech,  and  now  she  burst  out,  far  beyond  all  con- 
trol: "Because  she  loathes  you;  because  she  hates 
herself  for  ever  having  loved  you;  because  she  de- 
spises herself  for  having  ridden  up  here  after  you. 
Does  that  fill  your  cup  of  water,  Pierre,  eh?" 

His  forehead  was  shining  with  sweat,  but  he  set 
his  teeth,  and,  after  a  moment,  he  was  able  to  say  in 
the  same  hard,  calm  voice:  "I  suppose  there  was 
no  real  reason  for  her  change.  She  can  be  persuaded 
back  to  me  in  a  moment.  In  that  case  just  tell  me 
where  she  has  gone  and  I'll  ride  after  her." 

He  made  as  if  to  rise,  but  she  cried  in  a  panic, 
and  yet  with  a  wild  exultation:  "No,  she's  done 
with  you  forever,  and  the  more  you  make  love  to 
her  now  the  more  she'll  hate  you.  Because  she 
knows  that  when  you  kissed  her  before — when  you 
kissed  her — you  were  living  with  a  woman." 

"I — living  with  a  woman?" 


272         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

Her  voice  had  risen  out  of  the  whisper  for  the 
outbreak.  Now  it  sank  back  into  it. 

"Yes— with  me!" 

"With  you?  I  see.  Naturally  it  must  have  gone 
hard  with  her — Mary!  And  she  wouldn't  see  rea- 
son even  when  you  explained  that  you  and  I  are 
like  brothers?1' 

He  leaned  a  little  toward  her  and  just  a  shade  of 
emotion  came  in  his  voice. 

"When  you  carefully  explained,  Jack,  with  all 
the  eloquence  you  could  command,  that  you  and  I 
have  ridden  and  fought  and  camped  together  like 
brothers  for  six  years?  And  how  I  gave  you  your 
first  gun?  And  how  I've  stayed  between  you  and 
danger  a  thousand  times?  And  how  I've  never 
treated  you  otherwise  than  as  a  man?  And  how  I've 
given  you  the  love  of  a  blood-brother  to  take  the 
place  of  the  brother  who  died?  And  how  I've  kept 
you  in  a  clean  and  pure  respect  such  as  a  man  can 
only  give  once  in  his  life — and  then  only  to  his 
dearest  friend?  She  wouldn't  listen — even  when 
you  talked  to  her  like  this?" 

"For  God's  sake— Pierre !" 

"Ah,  but  you  talked  well  enough  to  pave  the  way 
for  me.  You  talked  so  eloquently  that  with  a  little 
more  persuasion  from  me  she  will  know  and  under- 
stand. Come,  I  must  be  gone  after  her.  Which 
way  did  she  ride — up  or  down  the  valley?" 

"You  could  talk  to  her  forever  and  she'd  never 
listen.  Pierre,  I  told  her  that  I  was — your  woman 
— that  you'd  told  me  of  your  scenes  with  her — and 
that  we'd  laughed  at  them  together." 


TIGER-HEART  273 

She  covered  her  eyes  and  crouched,  waiting  for 
the  wrath  that  would  fall  on  her,  but  he  only  smiled 
bitterly  on  the  bowed  head,  saying:  "Why  have  I 
waited  so  long  to  hear  you  say  what  I  knew  already? 
I  suppose  because  I  wouldn't  believe  until  I  heard 
the  whole  abominable  truth  from  your  own  lips. 
Jack,  why  did  you  do  it?" 

"Won't  you  see?  Because  I've  loved  you  always, 
Pierre!" 

"Love — you — your  tiger-heart?  No,  but  you 
were  like  a  cruel,  selfish  child.  You  were  jealous 
because  you  didn't  want  the  toy  taken  away.  I 
knew  it.  I  knew  that  even  if  I  rode  after  her  it 
would  be  hopeless.  Oh,  God,  how  terribly  you've 
hurt  me,  partner!" 

It  wrung  a  little  moan  from  her.  He  said  after 
a  moment:  "It's  only  the  ghost  of  a  chance,  but 
I'll  have  to  take  it.  Tell  me  which  way  she  rode? 
J*o?  .Then  I'll  try  to  find  her." 

She  leaped  between  him  and  the  door,  flinging 
her  shoulders  against  it  with  a  crash  and  standing 
with  outspread  arms  to  bar  the  way. 

"You  must  not  go  I" 

He  turned  his  head  somewhat. 

"Don't  stand  in  front  of  me,  Jack.  You  know 
I'll  do  what  I  say,  and  just  now  it's  a  bit  hard  for 
me  to  face  you." 

"Pierre,  I  feel  as  if  there  were  a  hand  squeezing 
my  heart  small,  and  small,  and  small.  Pierre,  I'd 
die  for  you !" 

"I  know  you  would.  I  know  you  would,  partner. 
It  was  only  a  mistake,  and  you  acted  the  way  any 


274         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

cold-hearted  boy  would  act  if — if  some  one  were  to 
try  to  steal  his  horse,  for  instance.  But  just  now  it's 
hard  for  me  to  look  at  you  and  be  calm." 

"Don't  try  to  be !  Swear  at  me — curse — rave — 
beat  me;  I'd  be  glad  of  the  blows,  Pierre.  I'd  hold 
out  my  arms  to  'em.  But  don't  go  out  that  door  1" 

"Why?" 

"Because — if  you  found  her — she's  not  alone." 

"Say  that  slowly.  I  don't  understand.  She1* 
not  alone?" 

"I'll  try  to  tell  you  from  the  first.  She  started 
out  for  you  with  Dick  Wilbur  for  a  guide." 

"Good  old  Dick,  God  bless  him  I  I'll  fill  all  his 
pockets  with  gold  for  that;  and  he  loves  her,  you 
know." 

"You'll  never  see  Dick  Wilbur  again.  On  the 
first  night  they  camped  she  missed  him  when  he 
went  for  water.  She  went  down  after  a  while  and 
saw  the  mark  of  his  body  on  the  sand.  He  never 
appeared  again." 

"Who  was  it?" 

"Listen.  The  next  morning  she  woke  up  and 
found  that  some  one  had  taken  care  of  the  fire 
while  she  slept,  and  her  pack  was  lashed  on  one 
of  the  saddles.  She  rode  on  that  day  and  came  at 
night  to  a  camp-fire  with  a  bed  of  boughs  near  it  and 
no  one  in  sight.  She  took  that  camp  for  herself  and 
no  one  showed  up. 

"Don't  you  see?  Some  one  was  following  her 
up  the  valley  and  taking  care  of  the  poor  baby  on 
the  way.  Some  one  who  was  afraid  to  let  himself 
be  seen.  Perhaps  it  was  the  man  who  killed  Dick 


TIGER-HEART  275 

Wilbur  without  a  sound  there  beside  the  river;  per- 
haps as  Dick  died  he  told  the  man  who  killed  him 
about  the  lonely  girl  and  this  other  man  was  white 
enough  to  help  Mary. 

"But  all  Mary  ever  saw  of  him  was  that  second 
night  when  she  thought  that  she  saw  a  streak  of 
white,  traveling  like  a  galloping  horse,  that  disap- 
peared over  a  hill  and  into  the  trees — " 

"A  streak  of  white — " 

"Yes,  yes!    The  white  horse — McGurk!" 

"McGurk!"  repeated  Pierre  stupidly;  then: 
"And  you  knew  she  would  be  going  out  to  him  when 
she  left  this  house?'* 

"I  knew — Pierre — don't  look  at  me  like  that — I 
knew  that  it  would  be  murder  to  let  you  cross  with 
McGurk.  You're  the  last  of  seven — he's  a  devil — 
no  man — " 

"And  you  let  her  go  out  into  the  night — to  him." 

She  clung  to  a  last  thread  of  hope:  "If  you  met 
him  and  killed  him  with  the  luck  of  the  cross  it 
would  bring  equal  bad  luck  on  some  one  you  love — 
on  the  girl,  Pierre!" 

He  was  merely  repeating  stupidly:  "You  let  her 
go  out — to  him — in  the  night!  She's  in  his  arms 
now — you  devil — you  tiger — " 

She  threw  herself  down  and  clung  about  his  knees 
with  hysterical  strength. 

"Pierre,  you  shall  not  go.  Pierre,  you  walk  on 
my  heart  if  you  go !" 

He  tore  the  little  cross  from  his  neck  and  flung 
it  into  her  upturned  face. 


276         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"Don't  make  me  put  my  hands  on  you,  Jack.  Let 
me  go !" 

There  was  no  need  to  tear  her  grasp  away.  She 
crumpled  and  slipped  sidewise  to  the  floor.  He 
leaned  over  and  shook  her  violently  by  the  shoulder. 

"Which  way  did  she  ride?  Which  way  did  they 
ride?" 

She  whispered:  "Down  the  valley,  Pierre;  down 
the  valley;  I  swear  they  rode  that  way." 

And  as  she  lay  in  a  half  swoon  she  heard  the  faint 
clatter  of  galloping  hoofs  over  the  rocks  and  a  wild 
voice  yelling,  fainter  and  fainter  with  distance: 
"McGurk!" 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

JACK  HEARS  A  SMALL  VOICE 

IT  came  back  to  her  like  a  threat;  it  beat  at  her 
ears  and  roused  her,  that  continually  diminishing 
cry:  "McGurk!"  It  went  down  the  valley,  and 
Mary  Brown,  and  McGurk  with  her,  perhaps,  had 
gone  up  the  gorge,  but  it  would  be  a  matter  of  a 
short  time  before  Pierre  le  Rouge  discovered  that 
there  was  no  camp-fire  to  be  sighted  in  the  lower 
ralley  and  whirled  to  storm  back  up  the  canon  with 
that  battle-cry:  "McGurk!"  still  on  his  lips. 

And  if  the  two  met  she  knew  the  result.  Seven 
strong  men  had  ridden  together,  fought  together, 
and  one  by  one  they  had  fallen,  disappeared  like 
the  white  smoke  of  the  camp-fire,  jerked  off  into 
thin  air  by  the  wind,  until  only  one  remained. 

How  clearly  she  could  see  them  all !  Bud  Mansic, 
meager,  lean,  with  a  shifting  eye;  Garry  Patterson, 
of  the  red,  good-natured  face;  Phil  Branch,  stolid 
and  short  and  muscled  like  a  giant ;  Handsome  Dick 
Wilbur  on  his  racing  bay;  Black  Gandil,  with  his  vil- 
lainies from  the  South  Seas  like  an  invisible  mantle 
of  awe  about  him;  and  her  father,  the  stalwart, 
gray  Boone. 

All  these  had  gone,  and  there  remained  only 

377 


278         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

Pierre  le  Rouge  to  follow  in  the  steps  of  the  six 
who  had  gone  before. 

She  crawled  to  the  door,  feeble  in  mind  and 
shuddering  of  body  like  a  runner  who  has  spent  his 
last  energy  in  a  long  race,  and  drew  it  open.  The 
wind  blew  up  the  valley  from  the  Old  Crow,  but  no 
sound  came  back  to  her,  no  calling  from  Pierre; 
and  orer  her  rose  the  black  pyramid  of  the  western 
peak  of  the  Twin  Bears  like  a  monstrous  nose  point- 
ing stiffly  toward  the  stars. 

She  closed  the  door,  dragged  herself  back  to  her 
feet,  and  stood  with  her  shoulders  leaning  against 
the  wall.  Her  weakness  was  not  weariness — it  was 
as  if  something  had  been  taken  from  her.  She  won- 
dered at  herself  somewhat  vaguely.  Surely  she 
had  never  been  like  this  before,  with  the  singular 
coldness  about  her  heart  and  the  feeling  of  loss,  of 
infinite  loss. 

What  had  she  4ost?  She  began  to  search  her 
mind  for  an  answer.  Then  she  smiled  uncertainly, 
a  wan,  small  smile.  It  was  very  clear;  what  she 
had  lost  was  all  interest  in  life  and  all  hope  for  the 
brave  to-morrow.  Nothing  remained  of  all  those 
lovely  dreams  which  she  had  built  up  by  day  and 
night  about  the  figure  of  Pierre  le  Rouge.  He  was 
gone,  and  the  bright-colored  bubble  she  had  blown 
vanished  at  once. 

She  felt  a  slight  pain  at  her  forehead  and  then 
remembered  the  cross  which  Pierre  had  thrown 
into  her  face.  Casting  that  away  he  had  thrown 
his  faintest  chance  of  victory  with  it;  it  would  be  a 


JACK  HEARS  A  SMALL  VOICE      279 

slaughter,  not  a  battle,  and  red-handed  McGurk 
would  leave  one  more  foe  behind  him. 

But  looking  down  she  found  the  cross  and  picked 
up  the  shining  bit  of  metal;  it  seemed  as  if  she  held 
the  greater  part  of  Pierre  le  Rouge  in  her  hands. 
She  raised  the  cross  to  her  lips. 

When  she  fastened  the  cross  about  her  throat  it 
was  with  no  exultation,  but  like  one  who  places  over 
his  heart  a  last  memorial  of  the  dead;  a  consecration, 
like  the  red  sign  or  the  white  which  the  crusaders 
wore  on  the  covers  of  their  shields. 

Then  she  took  from  her  breast  the  spray  of  au- 
tumn leaves.  He  had  not  noticed  them,  yet  perhaps 
they  had  helped  to  make  him  gay  when  he  came  into 
the  cabin  that  night,  so  she  placed  the  spray  on  the 
table.  Next  she  unpinned  the  great  rubies  from  her 
throat  and  let  her  eye  linger  over  them  for  a  mo- 
ment. They  were  chosen  stones,  each  as  deeply 
lighted  as  an  eye,  if  there  ever  were  eyes  of  this 
blood-red,  and  they  looked  up  at  her  with  a  lure 
and  a  challenge  at  once. 

The  first  thought  of  what  she  must  do  came  to 
Jacqueline  then,  but  not  in  an  overwhelming  tide — 
it  was  rather  a  small  voice  that  whispered  in  her 
heart. 

Last,  she  took  from  her  bosom  the  glove  of  the 
yellow-haired  girl.  Compared  with  her  stanch  rid- 
ing gloves,  how  small  was  this!  Yet,  when  she 
tried  it,  it  slipped  easily  on  her  hand.  This  she 
laid  in  that  little  pile,  for  these  were  the  things 
which  Pierre  would  wish  to  find  if  by  some  miracle 
he  came  back  from  the  battle.  The  spray,  perhaps, 


2«o         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

he  would  not  understand;  and  yet  he  might.  She 
pressed  both  hands  to  her  breast  and  drew  a  long 
breath,  for  her  heart  was  breaking.  Through  her 
misted  eyes  she  could  barely  see  the  shimmer  of  the 
cross. 

That  sight  made  her  look  up,  searching  for  a 
superhuman  aid  in  her  woe,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  a  conception  of  God  dawned  on  her  wild, 
gay  mind.  She  made  a  picture  of  him  like  a  vast 
cloud  looming  over  the  Twin  Bear  peaks  and 
breathing  an  infinite  calm  over  the  mountains.  The 
cloud  took  a  faintly  human  shape — a  shape  some- 
what like  that  of  her  father  when  he  lived,  for  he 
could  be  both  stern  and  gentle,  as  she  well  knew, 
and  such  gray  Boone  had  been. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  of  this  that  another  pic- 
ture came  out  of  her  infancy  of  a  soft  voice,  of  a 
tender-touching  hand,  of  brooding,  infinitely  loving 
eyes.  She  smiled  the  wan  smile  again  because  for 
the  first  time  it  came  to  her  that  she,  too,  even  she, 
the  wild,  the  "tiger-heart,"  as  Pierre  himself  had 
called  her,  might  one  day  have  been  the  mother  of 
a  child,  his  child. 

But  the  ache  within  her  grew  so  keen  that  she 
dropped,  writhing,  to  her  knees,  and  twisted  her 
hands  together  in  agony.  It  was  prayer.  There 
were  no  words  to  it,  but  it  was  prayer,  a  wild  appeal 
for  aid. 

That  aid  came  in  the  form  of  a  calm  that  swept 
on  her  like  the  flood  of  a  clear  moonlight  over  a 
storm-beaten  landscape.  The  whisper  which  had 
come  to  her  before  was  now  a  solemn-speaking 


JACK  HEARS  A  SMALL  VOICE      281 

voice,  and  she  knew  what  she  must  do.  She  could 
not  keep  the  two  men  apart,  but  she  might  reach 
McGurk  before  and  strike  him  down  by  stealth,  by 
craft,  any  way  to  kill  that  man  as  terrible  as  a 
devil,  as  invulnerable  as  a  ghost. 

This  she  might  do  in  the  heart  of  the  night,  and 
afterward  she  might  have  the  courage  left  to  tell 
the  girl  the  truth  and  then  creep  off  somewhere  and 
let  this  steady  pain  burn  its  way  out  of  her  heart. 

Once  she  had  reached  a  decision,  it  was  charac- 
teristic that  she  moved  swiftly.  Also,  there  was 
cause  for  haste,  for  by  this  time  Pierre  must  have 
discovered  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  lower 
reaches  of  the  gorge  and  would  be  galloping  back 
with  all  the  speed  of  the  cream-colored  mare  which 
even  McGurk's  white  horse  could  not  match. 

She  ran  from  the  cabin  and  into  the  little  lean-to 
behind  it  where  the  horses  were  tethered.  There 
she  swung  her  saddle  with  expert  hands,  whipped 
up  the  cinch,  and  pulled  it  with  the  strength  of  a 
man,  mounted,  and  was  off  up  the  gorge. 

For  the  first  few  minutes  she  let  the  long-limbed 
black  race  on  at  full  speed,  a  breathless  course,  be- 
cause the  beat  of  the  wind  in  her  face  raised  her 
courage,  gave  her  a  certain  impulse  which  was  al- 
most happiness,  just  as  the  martyrs  rejoiced  and 
held  out  their  hands  to  the  fire  that  was  to  consume 
them;  but  after  the  first  burst  of  headlong  gallop- 
ing, she  drew  down  the  speed  to  a  hand-canter,  and 
this  in  turn  to  a  fast  trot,  for  she  dared  not  risk  the 
far-echoed  sound  of  the  clattering  hoofs  over  the 
rock. 


282         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES  - 

And  as  she  rode  she  saw  at  last  the  winking  eye 
of  red  which  she  longed  for  and  dreaded.  She 
pulled  her  black  to  an  instant  halt  and  swung  from 
the  saddle,  tossing  the  reins  over  the  head  of  the 
horse  to  keep  him  standing  there. 

Yet,  after  she  had  made  half  a  dozen  hurried 
paces  something  forced  her  to  turn  and  look  again 
at  the  handsome  head  of  the  horse.  He  stood  quite 
motionless,  with  his  ears  pricking  after  her,  and  now 
as  she  stopped  he  whinnied  softly,  hardly  louder  than 
the  whisper  of  a  man.  So  she  ran  back  again  and 
threw  the  reins  over  the  horn  of  the  saddle ;  he 
should  be  free  to  wander  where  he  chose  through 
the  free  mountains,  but  as  for  her,  she  knew  very 
certainly  now  that  she  would  never  mount  that  sad- 
dle again,  or  control  that  triumphant  steed  with  the 
touch  of  her  hands  on  the  reins.  She  put  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  drew  his  head  down  close. 

There  was  a  dignity  in  that  parting,  for  it  was 
the  burning  of  her  bridges  behind  her.  When 
"King-Maker"  Richard  of  Warwick,  betrayed  and 
beaten  on  the  field,  came  to  his  last  stand  by  the 
forest,  he  dismounted  and  stabbed  his  favorite 
charger.  Very  different  was  this  wild  mountain  girl 
from  the  armored  earl  who  put  kings  up  and  pulled 
them  down  again  at  pleasure,  but  her  heart  swelled 
as  great  as  the  heart  of  famous  Warwick;  he  gave 
up  a  kingdom,  and  she  gave  up  her  love. 

When  she  drew  back  the  horse  followed  her  a 
pace,  but  she  raised  a  silent  hand  in  the  night  and 
halted  him;  a  moment  later  she  was  lost  among  the 
boulders. 


JACK  HEARS  A  SMALL  VOICE      283 

It  was  rather  slow  work  to  stalk  that  camp-fire, 
for  the  big  boulders  cut  off  the  sight  of  the  red 
eye  time  and  again,  and  she  had  to  make  little,  cau- 
tious detours  before  she  found  it  again,  but  she  kept 
steadily  at  her  work.  Once  she  stopped,  her  blood 
running  cold,  for  she  thought  that  she  heard  a  faint 
voice  blown  up  the  canon  on  the  wind:  "McGurk!" 

For  half  a  minute  she  stood  frozen,  listening,  but 
the  sound  was  not  repeated,  and  she  went  on  again 
with  greater  haste.  So  she  came  at  last  in  view  of 
a  hollow  in  the  side  of  the  gorge.  Here  there  were 
a  few  trees,  growing  in  the  cove,  and  here,  she  knew, 
there  was  a  small  spring  of  clear  water.  Many  a 
time  she  had  made  a  cup  of  her  hands  and  drunk 
here. 

Now  she  made  out  the  fire  clearly,  the  trees 
throwing  out  great  spokes  of  shadow  on  all  sides, 
spokes  of  shadows  that  wavered  and  shook  with 
the  flare  of  the  small  fire  beyond  them.  She  dropped 
to  her  hands  and  knees  and,  parting  the  dense  un- 
derbrush, began  the  last  stealthy  approach. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI 

A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

UP  the  same  course  which  Jacqueline  followed, 
Mary  Brown  had  fled  earlier  that  night  with  the 
triumphant  laughter  of  Jack  still  ringing  in  her 
ears  and  following  her  like  a  remorseless,  pointed 
hand  of  shame. 

There  is  no  power  like  shame  to  disarm  the  spirit. 
A  dog  will  fight  if  a  man  laughs  at  him;  a  coward 
will  challenge  the  devil  himself  if  he  is  whipped  on 
by  scorn;  and  this  proud  girl  shrank  and  moaned  on 
the  saddle.  She  had  not  progressed  far  enough  to 
hate  Pierre.  That  would  come  later,  but  now  all 
her  heart  had  room  for  was  a  consuming  loathing 
of  herself. 

Some  of  that  torture  went  into  the  spurs  with 
which  she  punished  the  side  of  the  bay,  and  the  tall 
horse  responded  with  a  high-tossed  head  and  a  burst 
of  whirlwind  speed.  The  result  was  finally  a  stum- 
ble over  a  loose  rock  that  almost  flung  Mary  over 
the  pommel  of  the  saddle  and  forced  her  to  draw 
rein. 

Having  slowed  the  pace  she  became  aware  that 
she  was  very  tired  from  the  trip  of  the  day,  and 
utterly  exhausted  by  the  wild  scene  with  Jacqueline, 
so  that  she  began  to  look  about  for  a  place  where 

284 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT          285 

she  could  stop  for  even  an  hour  or  so  and  rest  her 
aching  body. 

Thought  of  McGurk  sent  her  hand  trembling  to 
her  holster.  Still  she  knew  she  must  have  little  to 
fear  from  him.  He  had  been  kind  to  her.  Why 
had  this  scourge  of  the  mountain-desert  spared  her? 
Was  it  to  track  down  Pierre? 

It  was  at  this  time  that  she  heard  the  purl  and 
whisper  of  running  water,  a  sound  dear  to  the  hearts 
of  all  travelers.  She  veered  to  the  left  and  found 
the  little  grove  of  trees  with  a  thick  shrubbery  grow- 
ing between,  fed  by  the  water  of  that  diminutive 
brook.  She  dismounted  and  tethered  the  horses. 

By  this  time  she  had  seen  enough  of  camping  out 
to  know  how  to  make  herself  fairly  comfortable, 
and  she  set  about  it  methodically,  eagerly.  It  was 
something  to  occupy  her  mind  and  keep  out  a  little 
of  that  burning  sense  of  shame.  One  picture  it 
could  not  obliterate,  and  that  was  the  scene  of  Jac- 
queline and  Pierre  le  Rouge  laughing  together  over 
the  love  affair  with  the  silly  girl  of  the  yellow  hair. 

That  was  the  meaning,  then,  of  those  silences 
that  had  come  between  them  ?  He  had  been  think- 
ing, remembering,  careful  lest  he  should  forget  a 
single  scruple  of  the  whole  ludicrous  affair.  She 
shuddered,  remembering  how  she  had  fairly  flung 
herself  into  his  arms. 

On  that  she  brooded,  after  starting  the  little  fire. 
It  was  not  that  she  was  cold,  but  the  fire,  at  least, 
in  the  heart  of  the  black  night,  was  a  friend  incap- 
able of  human  treachery.  She  had  not  been  there 
long  when  the  tall  bay,  Wilbur's  horse,  stiffened, 


286         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

raised  his  head,  arched  his  tail,  and  then  whinnied. 

She  started  to  her  feet,  stirred  by  a  thousand 
fears,  and  heard,  far  away,  an  answering  neigh.  At 
once  all  thought  of  shame  and  of  Pierre  le  Rouge 
vanished  from  her  mind,  for  she  remembered  the 
man  who  had  followed  her  up  the  valley  of  the 
Old  Crow.  Perhaps  he  was  coming  now  out  of  the 
night;  perhaps  she  would  even  see  him. 

And  the  excitement  grew  in  her  pulse  by  pulse,  as 
the  excitement  grows  in  a  man  waiting  for  a  friend 
at  a  station;  he  sees  first  the  faint  smoke  like  a 
cloud  on  the  skyline,  and  then  a  black  speck  beneath 
the  smoke,  and  next  the  engine  draws  up  on  him 
with  a  humming  of  the  rails  which  grows  at  length 
to  a  thunder. 

All  the  while  his  heart  beats  faster  and  faster 
and  rocks  with  the  sway  of  the  approaching  engine ; 
so  the  heart  of  Mary  Brown  beat,  though  she  could 
not  see,  but  only  felt  the  coming  of  the  stranger. 

The  only  sign  she  saw  was  in  the  horses,  which 
showed  an  increasing  uneasiness.  Her  own  mare 
now  shared  the  restlessness  of  the  tall  bay,  and  the 
two  were  footing  it  nervously  here  and  there,  tug- 
ging at  the  tethers,  and  tossing  up  their  heads,  with 
many  a  start,  as  if  they  feared  and  sought  to  flee 
from  some  approaching  catastrophe — some  vast  and 
preternatural  change — some  forest  fire  which  came 
galloping  faster  than  even  their  fleet  limbs  could 
carry  them. 

Yet  all  beyond  the  pale  of  her  campfire's  light 
was  silence,  utter  and  complete  silence.  It  seemed 
as  if  a  veritable  muscular  energy  went  into  the  in- 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT  287 

tensity  of  her  listening,  but  not  a  sound  reached  her 
except  a  faint  whispering  of  the  wind  in  the  dark 
trees  above  her. 

But  at  last  she  knew  that  the  thing  was  upon  her. 
The  horses  ceased  their  prancing  and  stared  in  a 
fixed  direction  through  the  thicket  of  shrubbery; 
the  very  wind  grew  hushed  above  her;  she  could 
feel  the  new  presence  as  one  feels  the  silence  when 
a  door  closes  and  shuts  away  the  sound  of  the  street 
below. 

It  came  on  her  with  a  shock,  thrilling,  terrible, 
yet  not  altogether  unpleasant.  She  rose,  her  hands 
clenched  at  her  sides  and  the  great  blue  eyes  abnor- 
mally wide  as  they  stared  in  the  same  direction  as 
the  eyes  of  the  two  horses  held.  Yet  for  all  her 
preparation  she  nearly  fainted  and  a  blackness  came 
across  her  mind  when  a  voice  sounded  directly  be- 
hind her,  a  pleasantly  modulated  voice:  "Look  this 
way.  I  am  here,  in  front  of  the  fire." 

She  turned  about  and  the  two  horses,  quivering, 
whirled  toward  that  sound. 

She  stepped  back,  back  until  the  embers  of  the 
fire  lay  between  her^and  that  side  of  the  little  clear- 
ing. In  spite  of  herself  the  exclamation  escaped 
her—  "McGurk!" 

The  voice  spoke  again:  uDo  not  be  afraid.  You 
are  safe,  absolutely." 

"What  are  you?" 

"Your  friend." 

"Is  it  you  who  followed  me  up  the  valley?" 

"Yes." 


288         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"Come  into  the  light.  I  must  see  you."  A  faint 
laughter  reached  her  from  the  dark. 

"I  cannot  let  you  do  that.  If  that  had  been  pos- 
sible I  should  have  come  to  you  before." 

"But  I  feel — I  feel  almost  as  if  you  are  a  ghost 
and  no  man  of  flesh  and  blood." 

"It  is  better  for  you  to  feel  that  way  about  it," 
said  the  voice  solemnly,  "than  to  know  me." 

"At  least,  tell  me  why  you  have  followed  me, 
why  you  have  cared  for  me." 

"You  will  hate  me  if  I  tell  you,  and  fear  me." 

"No,  whatever  you  are,  trust  me.  Tell  me  at 
least  what  came  to  Dick  Wilbur?" 

"That's  easy  enough.  I  met  him  at  the  river,  a 
little  by  surprise,  and  caught  him  before  he  could 
even  shout.  Then  I  took  his  guns  and  Jet  him  go." 

"But  he  didn't  come  back  to  me?" 

"No.  He  knew  that  I  would  be  there.  I  might 
have  finished  him  without  giving  him  a  chance  to 
speak,  girl,  but  I'd  seen  him  with  you  and  I  was 
curious.  So  I  found  out  where  you  were  going  and 
why,  and  let  Wilbur  go.  I  came  back  and  looked 
at  you  and  found  you  asleep." 

She  grew  cold  at  the  thought  of  him  leaning  over 
her. 

"I  watched  you  a  long  time,  and  I  suppose  I'll 
remember  you  always  as  I  saw  you  then.  You  were 
very  beautiful  with  the  shadow  of  the  lashes  against 
your  cheek — almost  as  beautiful  as  you  are  now  as 
you  stand  over  there,  fearing  and  loathing  me.  I 
dared  not  let  you  see  me,  but  I  decided  to  take  care 
of  you — for  a  while." 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT          289 

"And  now?" 

"I  have  come  to  say  farewell  to  you." 

"Let  me  see  you  once  before  you  go." 

uNo !  You  see,  I  fear  you  even  more  than  you 
fear  me." 

uThen  I'll  follow  you." 

"It  would  be  useless — utterly  useless.  There  are 
ways  of  becoming  invisible  in  the  mountains.  But 
before  I  go,  tell  me  one  thing:  Have  you  left  the 
cabin  to  search  for  Pierre  le  Rouge  in  another 
place?" 

"No.    I  do  not  search  for  him." 

There  was  an  instant  of  pause.  Then  the  voice 
said  sharply :  "Did  Wilbur  lie  to  me  ?" 

"No.     I  started  up  the  valley  to  find  him." 

"But  you've  given  him  up?" 

"I  hate  him — I  hate  him  as  much  as  I  loathe  my- 
self for  ever  condescending  to  follow  him." 

She  heard  a  quick  breath  drawn  in  the  dark,  and 
then  a  murmur:  "I  am  free,  then,  to  hunt  him 
down!" 

"Why?" 

"Listen:  I  had  given  him  up  for  your  sake;  I  gave 
him  up  when  I  stood  beside  you  that  first  night  and 
watched  you  trembling  with  the  cold  in  your  sleep. 
It  was  a  weak  thing  for  me  to  do,  but  since  I  saw 
you,  Mary,  I  am  not  as  strong  as  I  once  was." 

"Now  you  go  back  on  his  trail?  It  is  death  for 
Pierre?" 

"You  say  you  hate  him?" 

"Ah,  but  as  deeply  as  that?"  she  questioned  her- 
self. 


290         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"It  may  not  be  death  for  Pierre.  I  have  ridden 
the  ranges  many  years  and  met  them  all  in  time, 
but  never  one  like  him.  Listen:  six  years  ago  I  met 
him  first  and  then  he  wounded  me — the  first  time 
any  man  has  touched  me.  And  afterward  I  was 
afraid,  Mary,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  for  the 
charm  was  broken.  For  six  years  I  could  not  return, 
but  now  I  am  at  his  heels.  Six  are  gone;  he  will  be 
the  last  to  go." 

"What  are  you?"  she  cried.  "Some  bloodhound 
reincarnated?" 

He  said:  "That  is  the  mildest  name  I  have  ever 
been  called." 


CHAPTER    XXXVII 

A  MAN'S  DEATH 

"GiVE  up  the  trail  of  Pierre." 

And  there,  brought  face  to  face  with  the  mortal 
question,  even  her  fear  burned  low  in  her,  and  once 
more  she  remembered  the  youth  who  would  not 
leave  her  in  the  snow,  but  held  her  in  his  arms  with 
the  strange  cross  above  them. 

She  said  simply:     "I  still  love  him." 

A  faint  glimmer  came  to  her  through  the  dark 
and  she  could  see  deeper  into  the  shrubbery,  for  now 
the  moon  stood  up  on  the  top  of  the  great  peak 
above  them  and  flung  a  faint  radiance  into  the  hol- 
low. That  glimmer  she  saw,  but  no  face  of  a  man. 

And  then  the  silence  held;  every  second  of  it  was 
more  than  a  hundred  spoken  words. 

Then  the  calm  voice  said:  "I  cannot  give  him 
up." 

"For  the  sake  of  God!" 

"God  and  I  have  been  strangers  for  a  good 
many  years." 

"For  my  sake." 

"But  you  see,  I  have  been  lying  to  myself.  I  told 
myself  that  I  was  coming  merely  to  see  you  once — 
for  the  last  time.  But  after  I  saw  you  I  had  to 
speak,  and  now  that  I  have  spoken  it  is  hard  to 

291 


292         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

leave  you,  and  now  that  I  am  with  you  I  cannot 
give  you  up  to  Pierre  le  Rouge." 

She  cried:     "What  will  you  have  of  me?" 

He  answered  with  a  ring  of  melancholy:  "Friend- 
ship? No,  I  can't  take  those  white  hands — mine 
are  so  red.  All  I  can  do  is  to  lurk  about  you  like 
a  shadow — a  shadow  with  a  sting  that  strikes  down 
all  other  men  who  come  near  you." 

She  said:  "For  all  men  have  told  me  about  you, 
I  know  you  could  not  do  that." 

"Mary,  I  tell  you  there  are  things  about  me,  and 
possibilities,  about  which  I  don't  dare  to  question 
myself." 

"You  have  guarded  me  like  a  brother.  Be  one 
to  me  still;  I  have  never  needed  one  so  deeply!" 

"A  brother?  Mary,  if  your  eyes  were  less  blue 
or  your  hair  less  golden  I  might  be;  but  you  are 
too  beautiful  to  be  only  that  to  me." 

"Listen  to  me — " 

But  she  stopped  in  the  midst  of  her  speech,  be- 
cause a  white  head  loomed  beside  the  dim  form. 
It  was  the  head  of  a  horse,  with  pricking  ears, 
which  now  nosed  the  shoulder  of  its  master,  and 
she  saw  the  firelight  glimmering  in  the  great  eyes. 

"Your  horse,"  she  said  in  a  trembling  voice, 
"loves  you  and  trusts  you." 

"It  is  the  only  thing  which  has  not  feared  me. 
When  it  was  a  colt  it  came  out  of  the  herd  and 
nosed  my  hand.  It  is  the  only  thing  which  has  not 
fought  me,  as  all  men  have  done — as  you  are  doing 
now,  Mary." 

The  wind  that  blew  up  the  gorge  came  in  gusts, 


A  MAN'S  DEATH  293 

not  any  steady  current,  but  fitful  rushes  of  air,  and 
on  one  of  these  brief  blasts  it  seemed  to  Mary  that 
she  caught  the  sound  of  a  voice  blown  to  whistling 
murmur.  It  was  a  vague  thing  of  which  she  could 
not  be  sure,  as  faint  as  a  thought.  Yet  the  head  of 
the  white  horse  disappeared,  and  the  glimmer  of  the 
man's  face  went  out. 

She  called:  "Whatever  you  are,  wait!  Let  me 
speak!" 

But  no  answer  came,  and  she  knew  that  the  form 
was  gone  forever. 

She  cried  again:     "Who's  there?" 

"It  is  I,"  said  a  voice  at  her  elbow,  and  she 
turned  to  look  into  the  dark  eyes  of  Jacqueline. 

"So  he's  gone?"  asked  Jack  bitterly. 

She  fingered  the  butt  of  her  gun. 

"I  thought — well,  my  chance  at  him  is  gone." 

"But  what—" 

"Bah,  if  you  knew  you'd  die  of  fear.  Listen  to 
what  I  have  to  say.  All  the  things  I  told  you  in 
the  cabin  were  lies." 

"Lies?"  said  Mary  evenly.  "No,  they  proved 
themselves." 

"Be  still  till  I've  finished,  because  if  you  talk  you 
may  make  me  forget — " 

The  gesture  which  finished  the  sentence  was  so 
eloquent  of  hate  that  Mary  shrank  away  and  put 
the  embers  of  the  fire  between  them. 

"I  tell  you,  it  was  all  a  lie,  and  Pierre  le  Rouge 
has  never  loved  anything  but  you,  you  milk-faced, 
yellow-livered — " 

She  stopped  again,  fighting  against  her  passion. 


2o4         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES      . 

The  pride  of  Mary  held  her  stiff  and  straight, 
though  her  voice  shook. 

"Has  he  sent- you  after  me  with  mockery?" 

"No,  he's  given  up  the  hope  of  you." 

"The  hope?" 

"Don't  you  see  ?  Are  you  going  to  make  me  crawl 
to  explain?  It  always  seemed  to  me  that  God  meant 
Pierre  for  me.  It  always  seemed  to  me  that  a  girl 
like  me  was  what  he  needed.  But  Pierre  had  never 
seen  it.  Maybe,  if  my  hair  was  yellow  an'  my  eyes 
blue,  he  might  have  felt  different;  but  the  way  it  is, 
he's  always  treated  me  like  a  kid  brother — " 

"And  lived  with  you?"  said  the  other  sternly. 

"Like  two  men !  D'you  understand  how  a 
woman  could  be  the  bunky  of  a  man  an'  yet  be  no 
more  to  him  than — than  a  man  would  be.  You 
don't?  Neither  do  I,  but  that's  what  I've  been  to 
Pierre  le  Rouge.  What's  that?" 

She  lifted  her  head  and  stood  poised  as  if  for 
flight.  Once  more  the  vague  sound  blew  up  to  them 
upon  the  wind.  Mary  ran  to  her  and  grasped  both 
of  her  hands  in  her  own. 

"If  it's  true—" 

But  Jack  snatched  her  hands  away  and  looked 
on  the  other  with  a  mighty  hatred  and  a  mightier 
contempt. 

"True?  Why,  it  damn  near  finishes  Pierre  with 
me  to  think  he'd  take  up  with — a  thing  like  you. 
But  it's  true.  If  somebody  else  had  told  me  I'd  of 
laughed  at  'em.  But  it's  true.  Tell  me:  what'll 
you  do  with  him?" 


A  MAN'S  DEATH  295 

"Take  him  back — if  I  can  reach  him — take  him 
back  to  the  East  and  to  God's  country." 

"Yes — maybe  he'd  be  happy  there.  But  when 
the  spring  comes  to  the  city,  Mary,  wait  till  the 
wind  blows  in  the  night  and  the  rain  comes  tappin' 
on  the  roof.  Then  hold  him  if  you  can.  D'ye  hear? 
Hold  him  if  you  can!" 

"If  he  cares  it  will  not  be  hard.  Tell  me  again, 
if—" 

"Shut  up.    What's  that  again?" 

The  sound  was  closer  now  and  unmistakably 
something  other  than  the  moan  , of  the  wind. 

Jacqueline  turned  in  great  excitement  to  Mary: 

"Did  McGurk  hear  that  sound  down  the  gorge?" 

"Yes.    I  think  so.    And  then  he—" 

"My  God!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Pierre,  and  he's  calling  for — d'you  hear?" 

Clear  and  loud,  though  from  a  great  distance, 
the  wind  carried  up  the  sound  and  the  echo  pre- 
served it:  "McGurk!" 

"McGurk!"  repeated  Mary. 

"Yes!  And  you  brought  him  up  here  with  you, 
and  brought  his  death  to  Pierre.  What'll  you  do 
to  save  him  now?  Pierre!" 

She  turned  and  fled  out  among  the  trees,  and  after 
her  ran  Mary,  calling,  like  the  other:  "Pierre!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  WAITING 

AFTER  that  call  first  reached  him,  clear  to  his 
ears  though  vague  as  a  murmur  at  the  ear  of  Mary, 
McGurk  swung  to  the  saddle  of  his  white  horse, 
and  galloped  down  the  gorge  like  a  veritable  angel 
of  death. 

The  end  was  very  near,  he  felt,  yet  the  chances 
were  at  least  ten  to  one  that  he  would  miss  Pierre 
in  the  throat  of  the  gorge,  for  among  the  great 
boulders,  tall  as  houses,  which  littered  it,  a  thousand 
men  might  have  passed  and  repassed  and  never  seen 
each  other.  Only  the  calling  of  Pierre  could  guide 
him  surely. 

The  calling  had  ceased  for  some  moments,  and  he 
began  to  fear  that  he  had  overrun  his  mark  and 
missed  Pierre  in  the  heart  of  the  pass,  when,  as  he 
rounded  a  mighty  boulder,  the  shout  ran  ringing  in 
his  very  ears:  "McGurk !"  and  a  horseman  swung 
into  view. 

"Here!"  he  called  in  answer,  and  stood  with  his 
right  hand  lifted,  bringing  his  horse  to  a  sharp 
halt,  like  some  ancient  cavalier  stopping  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  battle  to  exchange  greetings  with  a  friend- 
ly foe. 

The  other  rider  whirled  alongside,  his  sombrero's 
296 


THE  WAITING  297 

brim  flaring  back  from  his  forehead,  so  that  Mo 
Gurk  caught  the  glare  of  the  eyes  beneath  the 
shadow. 

"So  for  the  third  time,  my  friend — "  said  Mc- 
Gurk. 

"Which  is  the  fatal  one,"  answered  Pierre.  "How 
will  you  die,  McGurk?  On  foot  or  on  horseback  ?" 

"On  the  ground,  Pierre,  for  my  horse  might  stir 
and  make  my  work  messy.  I  love  a  neat  job,  you 
know." 

"Good." 

They  swung  from  the  saddles  and  stood  facing 
each  other. 

"Begin!"  commanded  McGurk.  "I've  no  time 
to  waste." 

"I've  very  little  time  to  look  at  the  living  Mc- 
Gurk. Let  me  look  my  fill  before  the  end." 

"Then  look,  and  be  done.  I've  a  lady  coming  to 
meet  me." 

The  other  grew  marvelously  calm. 

"She  is  with  you,  McGurk?" 

"My  dear  Pierre,  I've  been  with  her  ever  since 
she  started  up  the  Old  Crow." 

"It  will  be  easier  to  forget  her.    Are  you  ready?" 

"So  soon?  Come,  man,  there's  much  for  us  to 
say.  Many  old  times  to  chat  over." 

"I  only  wonder,"  said  Pierre,  "how  one  death 
can  pay  back  what  you've  done.  Think  of  it !  I've 
actually  run  away  from  you  and  hidden  myself  away 
among  the  hills.  I've  feared  you,  McGurk!" 

He  said  it  with  a  deep  astonishment,  as  a  grown 
man  will  speak  of  the  way  he  feared  darkness  when 


298         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

he  was  a  child.  McGurk  moistened  his  white  lips. 
The  white  horse  pawed  the  rocks  as  though  impa- 
tient to  be  gone. 

"Listen,"  said  Pierre,  "your  horse  grows  restive. 
Suppose  we  stand  here — it's  a  convenient  distance 
apart,  you  see,  and  wait  with  our  arms  folded  for 
the  next  time  the  white  horse  paws  the  rocks,  be- 
cause when  I  kill  you,  McGurk,  I  want  you  to  die 
knowing  that  another  man  was  faster  on  the  draw 
and  straighter  with  his  bullets  than  you  are.  D'you 
see?" 

He  could  not  have  spoken  with  a  more  formal 
politeness  if  he  had  been  asking  the  other  to  pass 
first  through  the  door, of  a  dining-room.  The  won- 
der of  McGurk  grew  and  the  sweat  on  his  forehead 
seemed  to  be  spreading  a  chill  through  his  entire 
body. 

He  said:  "I  see.  You  trust  all  to  the  cross,  eh, 
Pierre?  The  little  cross  under  your  neck?" 

"The  cross  is  gone,"  said  Pierre  le  Rouge.  "Why 
should  I  use  it  against  a  night  rider,  McGurk?  Are 
you  ready?" 

And  McGurk,  not  trusting  his  voice  for  some 
strange  reason,  nodded.  The  two  folded  their  arms. 

But  the  white  horse  which  had  been  pawing  the 
stones  so  eagerly  a  moment  before  was  now  un- 
usually quiet.  The  very  postures  of  the  men  seemed 
to  have  frozen  him  to  stone,  a  beautiful,  marble 
statue,  with  the  moonlight  glistening  on  the  muscles 
of  his  perfect  shoulders. 

At  length  he  stirred.  At  once  a  quiver  jerked 
through  the  tense  bodies  of  the  waiting  men,  but 


THE  WAITING  299 

the  white  horse  had  merely  stiffened  and  raised  his 
head  high.  Now,  with  arched  neck  and  flaunting 
tail  he  neighed  loudly,  as  if  he  asked  a  question. 
How  could  he  know,  dumb  brute,  that  what  he 
asked  only  death  could  answer? 

And  as  they  waited  an  itching  came  at  the  palm 
of  McGurk's  hand.  It  was  not  much,  just  a  tingle 
of  the  blood.  To  ease  it,  he  closed  his  fingers  and 
found  that  his  hand  was  moist  with  cold  perspiration. 

He  began  to  wonder  if  his  fingers  would  be  slip- 
pery on  the  butt  of  the  gun.  Then  he  tried  covertly 
to  dry  them  against  his  shirt.  But  he  ceased  this 
again,  knowing  that  he  must  be  of  naif-trigger 
alertness  to  watch  for  the  stamp  of  the  white  horse. 

It  occurred  to  him,  also,  that  he  was  standing  on 
a  loose  stone  which  might  wabble  when  he  pulled 
his  gun,  and  he  cursed  himself  silently  for  his  hasty 
folly.  Pierre,  doubtless,  had  noticed  that  stone,  and 
therefore  he  had  made  the  suggestion  that  they  stand 
where  they  were.  Otherwise,  how  could  there  be 
that  singular  calm  in  the  steady  eyes  which  looked 
across  at  him? 

Also,  how  explain  the  hunger  of  that  stare?  Was 
not  he  McGurk,  and  was  not  this  a  man  whom  he 
had  already  once  shot  down?  God,  what  a  fool 
he  had  been  not  to  linger  an  instant  longer  in  that 
saloon  in  the  old  days  and  place  the  final  shot  in 
the  prostrate  body!  In  all  his  life  he  had  made 
only  one  such  mistake,  and  now  that  folly  was  pur- 
suing him.  And  now — 

The  foot  of  the  white  horse  lifted — struck  the 
rock.  The  sound  of  its  fall  was  lost  in  the  explo- 


300        RIDERS  OF  THE  oiLENCES 

sion  of  two  guns,  and  a  ring  of  metal  on  metal. 
The  revolver  snapped  from  the  hand  of  McGurk, 
whirled  in  a  flashing  circle,  and  clanged  on  the  rocks 
at  his  feet.  The  bullet  of  Pierre  had  struck  the 
barrel  and  knocked  it  cleanly  from  his  hand. 

It  was  luck,  only  luck,  that  placed  that  shot,  and 
his  own  bullet,  which  had  started  first,  had  travelled 
wild  for  there  stood  Pierre  le  Rouge,  Smiling 
faintly,  alert,  calm.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
McGurk  had  missed.  He  set  his  teeth  and  waited 
for  death. 

But  that  steady  voice  of  Pierre  said:  "To  shoot 
you  would  be  a  pleasure ;  it  would  even  be  a  luxury, 
but  there  wouldn't  be  any  lasting  satisfaction  in  it. 
So  there  lies  your  gun  at  your  feet.  Well,  here  lies 


mine." 


He  dropped  his  own  weapon  to  a  position  corre- 
sponding with  that  of  McGurk's. 

"We  were  both  very  wild  that  time.  We  must 
do  better  now.  We'll  stoop  for  our  guns,  McGurk. 
The  signal?  No,  we  won't  wait  for  the  horse  to 
stamp.  The  signal  will  be  when  you  stoop  for  your 
gun.  You  shall  have  every  advantage,  you  see? 
Start  for  that  gun,  McGurk,  when  you're  ready 
for  the  end." 

The  hand  of  McGurk  stretched  out  and  his  arm 
stiffened  but  it  seemed  as  though  all  the  muscles  of 
his  back  had  grown  stiff.  He  could  not  bend.  It 
was  strange.  It  was  both  ludicrous  and  incompre- 
hensible. Perhaps  he  had  grown  stiff  with  cold  in 
that  position. 

But  he  heard  the  voice  of  Pierre  explaining  gently: 


THE  WAITING  301 

"You  can't  move,  my  friend.  I  understand.  It's 
fear  that  stiffened  your  back.  It's  fear  that  sends 
the  chill  up  and  down  your  blood.  It's  fear  that 
makes  you  think  back  to  your  murders,  one  by  one. 
McGurk,  you're  done  for.  You're  through.  You're 
ready  for  the  discard.  I'm  not  going  to  kill  you. 
I've  thought  of  a  finer  hell  than  death,  and  that  is  to 
live  as  you  shall  live.  I've  beaten  you,  McGurk, 
beaten  you  fairly  on  the  draw,  and  I've  broken  your 
heart  by  doing  it.  The  next  time  you  face  a  man 
you'll  begin  to  think — you'll  begin  to  remember  how 
one  other  man  beat  you  at  the  draw.  And  that 
wonder,  McGurk,  will  make  your  hand  freeze  to 
your  side,  as  you've  made  the  hands  of  other  men 
before  me  freeze.  D'you  understand?" 

The  lips  of  McGurk  parted.  The  whisper  of  his 
dry  panting  reached  Pierre,  and  the  devil  in  him 
smiled. 

"In  six  weeks,  McGurk,  you'll  take  water  from  a 
Chinaman.  Now  get  out!" 

And  pace  by  pace  McGurk  drew  back,  with  his 
face  still  toward  Pierre. 

The  latter  cried:  "Wait.  Are  you  going  to  leave 
your  gun?" 

Only  the  steady  retreat  continued. 

"And  go  unarmed  through  the  mountains?  What 
will  men  say  when  they  see  McGurk  with  an  empty 
holster?" 

But  the  outlaw  had  passed  out  of  view  beyond 
the  corner  of  one  of  the  monster  boulders.  After 
him  went  the  white  horse,  slowly,  picking  his  steps* 


302         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

as  if  he  were  treading  on  dangerous  and  unknown 
ground  and  would  not  trust  his  leader.  Pierre  was 
left  to  the  loneliness  of  the  gorge. 

The  moonlight  only  served  to  make  more  visible 
its  rocky  nakedness,  and  like  that  nakedness  was  the 
life  of  Pierre  under  his  hopeless  inward  eye.  Over 
him  loomed  from  either  side  the  gleaming  pinnacles 
of  the  Twin  Bears,  and  he  remembered  many  a  time 
when  he  had  looked  up  toward  them  from  the  crests 
of  lesser  mountains — looked  up  toward  them  as  a 
man  looks  to  a  great  and  unattainable  ideal. 

Here  he  was  come  to  the  crest  of  all  the  ranges; 
here  he  was  come  to  the  height  and  limit  of  his  life, 
and  what  had  he  attained?  Only  a  cruel,  cold  isola- 
tion. It  had  been  a  steep  ascent;  the  declivity  of 
the  farther  side  led  him  down  to  a  steep  and  certain 
.ruin  and  the  dark  night  below.  But  he  stiffened 
suddenly  and  threw  his  head  high  as  if  he  faced  his 
fate;  and  behind  him  the  cream-colored  mare  raised 
her  head  with  a  toss  and  whinnied  softly. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  heard  something 
calling,  for  the  sound  was  lost  against  the  sweep  of 
wind  coming  up  the  gorge.  Something  calling  there 
in  the  night  of  the  mountains  as  he  himself  had 
called  when  he  rode  so  wildly  in  the. quest  for  Mc- 
Gurk.  How  long  ago  had  that  been? 

But  it  came  once  more,  clear  beyond  all  doubt. 
He  recognized  the  voice  in  spite  of  the  panting 
which  shook  it;  a  wild  wail  like  that  of  a  heart- 
broken child,  coming  closer  to  him  like  some  one, 
running:  "Pierre!  Oh,  Pierre  I" 


THE  WAITING  303 

And  all  at  once  he  knew  that  the  moon  was  broad 
and  bright  and  fair,  and  the  heavens  clear  and  shin- 
ing with  golden  points  of  light.  Once  more  the 
cry.  He  raised  his  arms  and  waited. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  CROSS  GOES  ON 

So  Mary,  running  through  the  wilderness  of 
boulders,  was  guided  straight  and  found  Pierre,  and 
before  the  morning  came,  they  were  journeying 
east  side  by  side,  east  and  down  to  the  cities  of  cul- 
ture and  a  new  life;  but  Jacqueline,  a  thousand  times 
quicker  of  foot  and  surer  of  eye  and  ear,  missed 
her  goal,  went  past  it,  and  still  on  and  on,  running 
finally  at  a  steady  trot. 

Until  at  last  she  knew  that  she  had  far  over- 
stepped her  mark  and  sank  down  against  one  of 
the  rocks  to  rest  and  think  out  what  next  she  must 
do.  There  seemed  nothing  left.  Even  the  sound 
of  a  gun  fired  she  might  not  hear,  for  that  sharp 
call  would  not  travel  far  against  the  wind. 

It  was  while  she  sat  there,  burying  Pierre  in 
her  thoughts,  a  white  shape  came  glimmering  down 
to  her  through  the  moonlight.  She  was  on  her  feet 
at  once,  alert  and  gun  in  hand.  It  could  only  be 
one  horse,  only  one  rider,  McGurk  coming  down 
from  his  last  killing  with  the  sneer  on  his  pale  lips. 
Well,  he  would  complete  his  work  this  night  and 
kill  her  fighting  face  to  face. 

A  man's  death ;  that  was  all  she  crave3.    She  rose ; 


THE  CROSS  GOES  ON  305 

she  stepped  boldly  out  into  the  center  of  the  trail 
between  the  rocks. 

There  she  saw  the  greatest  wonder  she  had  ever 
looked  on.  It  was  McGurk  walking  with  bare, 
bowed  head,  and  after  him,  like  a  dog  after  the 
master,  followed  the  white  horse.  She  shoved  the 
revolver  back  into  the  holster.  This  should  be  a 
fair  fight. 

"McGurk!" 

Very  slowly  the  head  went  up  and  back,  and  there 
he  stood,  not  ten  paces  from  her,  with  the  white 
moon  full  on  his  face.  The  sneer  was  still  there; 
the  eyelid  fluttered  in  scornful  derision.  And  the 
heart  of  Jacqueline  came  thundering  in  her  throat. 

But  she  cried  in  a  strong  voice:  "McGurk,  d'you 
know  me?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"You  murderer,  you  night-rider!  Look  again: 
it's  the  last  of  the  Boones!" 

The  sneer,  it  seemed  to  her,  grew  bitterer,  but 
still  the  man  did  not  speak.  Then  the  thought  of 
Pierre,  lying  dead  somewhere  among  the  rocks, 
burned  across  her  mind.  Her  hand  leaped  for  the 
revolver,  and  whipped  it  out  in  a  blinding  flash 
to  cover  him,  but  with  her  finger  curling  on  the 
trigger  she  checked  herself  in  the  nick  of  time.  Mc- 
Gurk had  made  no  move  to  protect  himself. 

A  strange  feeling  came  to  her  that  perhaps  the 
man  would  not  war  against  women;  the  case  of 
Mary  was  almost  proof  enough  of  that.  But  as 
she  stepped  forward,  wondering,  she  looked  at  the 


306         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

holster  at  his  side  and  saw  that  it  was  empty.  Then 
she  understood. 

Understood  in  a  daze  that  Pierre  had  met  the 
man  and  conquered  him  and  sent  him  out  through 
the  mountains  disarmed.  The  white  horse  raised 
his  head  and  whinnied,  and  the  sound  gave  a  thought 
to  her.  She  could  not  kill  this  man,  unarmed  as  he 
was ;  she  could  do  a  more  shameful  thing. 

"The  bluff  you  ran  was  a  strong  one,  McGurk," 
she  said  bitterly,  "and  you  had  these  parts  pretty 
well  at  a  standstill;  but  Pierre  was  a  bit  too  much 
for  you,  eh?" 

The  white  face  had  not  altered,  and  still  it  did 
not  change,  but  the  sneer  was  turned  steadily  on 
her. 

She  cried:    "Goon!    Go  on  down  the  gorge !" 

Like  an  automaton  the  man  stepped  forward,  and 
after  him  paced  the  white  horse.  She  stepped  be- 
tween, caught  the  reins,  and  swung  up  to  the  saddle, 
and  sat  there,  controlling  between  her  stirrups  the 
best-known  mount  in  all  the  mountain-desert.  A 
thrill  of  wild  exultation  came  to  her.  She  cried: 
"Look  back,  McGurk !  Your  gun  is  gone,  your  horse 
is  gone;  you're  weaker  than  a  woman  in  the  moun- 
tains!" 

Yet  he  went  on  without  turning,  not  with  the 
hurried  step  of  a  coward,  but  still  as  one  stunned. 
Then,  sitting  quietly  in  the  saddle,  she  forgot  Mc- 
Gurk and  remembered  Pierre.  He  was  happy  by 
this  time  with  the  girl  of  the  yellow  hair;  there  was 
nothing  remaining  to  her  from  him  except  the 
ominous  cross  which  touched  cold  against  her 


THE  CROSS  GOES  ON  307 

breast.  That  he  had  abandoned  as  he  had  aban- 
doned her. 

What,  then,  was  left  for  her?  The  horse  of  an 
outlaw  for  her  to  ride;  the  heart  of  an  outlaw  in 
her  breast. 

She  touched  the  white  horse  with  the  spurs  and 
went  at  a  reckless  gallop,  weaving  back  and  forth 
among  the  boulders  down  the  gorge.  For  she  was 
riding  away  from  the  past. 

The  dawn  came  as  she  trotted  out  into  a  widening 
valley  of  the  Old  Crow.  To  maintain  even  that 
pace  she  had  to  use  the  spurs  continually,  for  the 
white  horse  was  deadly  weary,  and  his  head  fell  more 
and  more.  She  decided  to  make  a  brief  halt,  at  last, 
and  in  order  to  make  a  fire  that  would  take  the  chill 
of  the  cold  morning  from  her,  she  swung  up  to  the 
edge  of  the  woods.  There,  before  she  could  dis- 
mount, she  saw  a  man  turn  the  shoulder  of  the  slope. 
She  drew  the  horse  back  deeper  among  the  trees 
and  waited. 

He  came  with  a  halting  step,  reeling  now  and 
again,  a  big  man,  hatless,  coatless,  apparently  at  the 
last  verge  of  exhaustion.  Now  his  foot  apparently 
struck  a  small  rock,  and  he  pitched  to  his  face.  It 
required  a  long  struggle  before  he  could  regain  his 
feet;  and  now  he  continued  his  journey  at  the  same 
gait,  only  more  uncertainly  than  ever,  close  and 
closer.  There  was  something  familiar  now  about 
the  fellow's  size,  and  something  in  the  turn  of  his 
head.  Suddenly  she  rode  out,  crying:  "Wilbur!" 

He  swerved,  saw  the  white  horse,  threw  up  his 
hands  high  above  his  head,  and  went  backward, 


308         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

reeling,  with  a  hoarse  scream  which  Jacqueline 
would  never  forget.  She  galloped  to  him  and  swung 
to  the  ground. 

"It's  me— Jack.    D'you  hear?" 

He  would  not  lower  those  arms,  and  his  eyes 
stared  wildly  at  her.  On  his  forehead  the  blood  had 
caked  over  a  cut;  his  shirt  was  torn  to  rags,  and 
the  hair  matted  wildly  over  his  eyes.  She  caught 
his  hands  and  pulled  them  down. 

"It's  not  McGurk!  Don't  you  hear  me?  It's 
Jack!" 

He  reached  out,  like  a  blind  man  who  has  to  see 
by  the  sense  of  touch,  and  stroked  her  face. 

"Jack!"  he  whispered  at  last.    "Thank  God!" 

"What's  happened?" 

"McGurk—" 

A  violent  palsy  shook  him,  and  he  could  not  go 
on. 

"I  know — I  understand.  He  took  your  guns 
and  left  you  to  wander  in  this  hell !  Damn  him !  I 
wish—" 

She  stopped. 

"How  long  since  you've  eaten?" 

"Years!" 

"We'll  eat— McGurk's  food!" 

But  she  had  to  assist  him  up  the  slope  to  the 
trees,  and  there  she  left  him  propped  against  P. 
trunk,  his  arms  fallen  weakly  at  his  sides,  while  she 
built  the  fire  and  cooked  the  food.  Afterward  she 
could  hardly  eat,  watching  him  devour  what  she 
placed  before  him;  and  it  thrilled  all  the  woman 
in  her  to  a  strange  warmth  to  take  care  of  the  long- 


THE  CROSS  GOES  ON  309 

rider.  Then,  except  for  the  disfigured  face  and  the 
bloodshot  eyes,  he  was  himself. 

"Up  there?    What  happened?" 

He  pointed  up  the  valley. 

"The  girl  and  Pierre.    They're  together." 

"She  found  him?" 

"Yes." 

He  bowed  his  head  and  sighed. 

"And  the  horse,  Jack?"    He  said  it  with  awe. 

"I  took  the  horse  from  McGurk." 

"You!" 

She  nodded.    After  all,  it  was  not  a  lie. 

"You  killed  McGurk?" 

She  said  coolly :  "I  let  him  go  the  way  he  let  you, 
Dick.  He's  on  foot  in  the  mountains  without  a 
horse  or  a  gun." 

"It  isn't  possible!" 

"There  the  horse  for  proof." 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  she  were  something  more 
than  human. 

"Our  Jack— did  this?" 

"We've  got  to  start  on.     Can  you  walk,  Dick?" 

"A  thousand  miles  now." 

Yet  he  staggered  when  he  tried  to  rise,  and  she 
made  him  climb  up  to  the  saddle.  The  white  horse 
walked  on,  and  she  kept  her  place  close  at  the  stirrup 
of  the  rider.  He  would  have  stopped  and  dis- 
mounted for  her  a  hundred  times,  but  she  made  him 
keep  his  place. 

"What's  ahead  of  us,  Jack?  We're  the  last  of 
the  gang?" 

"The  last  of  Boone's  gang.    We  are." 


310         RIDERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

"The  old  life  over  again?" 

"What  else?" 

"Yes;  what  else?" 

"Are  you  afraid,  Dick?" 

"Not  with  you  for  a  pal.  Seven  was  too  many; 
with  two  we  can  rule  the  range." 

"Partners,  Dick?" 

How  could  he  tell  that  her  voice  was  gone  so 
gentle  because  she  was  seeing  in  her  mind's  eye  an- 
other face  than  his?  He  leaned  toward  her, 
thrilling. 

"Why  not  something  more  than  partners,  after 
a  while,  Jack?" 

She  smiled  strangely  up  to  him. 

"Because  of  this,  Dick." 

And  fumbling  at  her  throat,  she  showed  him  the 
glittering  metal  of  the  cross;  an  instinct  made  him 
swerve  the  horse  away  from  her. 

"The  cross  goes  on,  but  what  of  you  Jack?" 

A  long  silence  fell  between  them.  Words  died 
in  the  making. 

The  great  weight  pressing  down  on  that  slender 
throat  was  like  the  iron  hand  of  a  giant,  but  slowly 
one  by  one  the  sounds  marshalled  themselves  : 

"...  God  knows  .  .  .  '  It  was  the  passing  of 
Judgment.  "God  knows  .  .  .  not  I." 


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